Lessons in Stalking: Adjusting to Life with Cats

-11- A Second Cat

I was worried about the cat.

She was lethargic, dragging around the house. Oh sure, she perked up when we fed her, scampering to her food dish, but otherwise she seemed bored.

I had the perfect solution.

“We need another cat,” I told my husband.

He stared at me. “Are you insane?” he asked. “We can’t deal with the one we’ve got.”

“I know,” I said. “But I think another cat would help.

That way she would have a little friend to play with and she’d get some exercise. Plus, they can keep each other company while we’re at work.”

“Cats don’t need company,” said my husband. “They’re independent.”

He spoke in the same smug tone he uses when we discuss whether or not to leave a nightlight on for the cat.

He insists there’s no need, as cats can see in the dark. My point is that light is always a source of comfort, even if you can see fine without it. We never reached agreement on the matter and now take a passive-aggressive stance as we punch the nightlight over the stove on and off in a neverending battle of will.

“Cats do need company, ”I argued. “Why do you think she follows me around when I get home from work?

Because she’s been alone all day and she wants to be around someone, that’s why.”

“That and you constantly feed her,” my husband said.

We glare at one another.

“So are we getting another cat?” I ask.

“No,” he said.

Two weeks later I sneak into the house. I’ve just returned from the vet where we take the cat once a month to have her claws trimmed. We did a price comparison and the six dollars we pay the vet tech to do this is much cheaper than the blood transfusions required each time we attempt it ourselves.

I release the cat from her carrier and she scurries off.

I then carefully unwrap the bundle in my arms. It mews softly.

My husband enters the room.

“What’s that?” he asks, suspiciously.

“What?” I ask, looking over my shoulder.

“In your arms,” he says speaking through clenched teeth. “What is that in your arms?”

I gently place the kitten on the floor and fling myself at my husband. I decided on the drive home the pity route was my best shot at victory.

“I was at the vet and I saw this kitten in a cage. A cage!

And she is so cute and I love her and I think she would be a really good pet and the cat needs a friend and I love her and I can’t take her back to that awful cage,” I say, ending on a wail.

“No,” he said.

I grab the kitten and wield her in front of his face, raising my voice to Minnie-Mouse decibels. “Look how cute I am!” I coo, bouncing the kitten. “Look at my widdle face.

Please don’t send me back to the mean, old, ugly cage.”

The kitten sends my husband a look. Sorry man. Listen, is she always like this? Really, that cage wasn’t so bad…

My husband opens his mouth.

“Pleaseeeee” I say, shaking the kitten at him. She’s looking a little dazed.

He rolls his eyes. “Fine, we’ll see how it goes.”

I knew exactly how it would go. Carrying the purring kitten home, I had visions of our two cats as compadres for life. They would bat a ball of yarn back and forth. Snuggle together side by side in front of a warm fire grate. Give each other baths. They would be the best of friends. And they would love me all the more for bringing them together.

The cat was peeking at the kitten from behind the kitchen door.

“Come here sweetie,” I said. “Look what Mommy got for you.” I picked the kitten up and placed her in front of the cat, waiting for the love fest to begin. I was, to say the least, unprepared for what happened next.

The cat’s back rose in a boiling arch of fury as she towered over the kitten, spitting and hissing. Not to be outdone, the kitten arched her back and growled deep in her throat.

“Uh-oh,” said my husband, taking a step back.

There was a flash of claws, flying fur, yelps, growls, and then it was over. The cat ran out of the room and the kitten crawled under the couch where she stayed for the next two weeks. The cat refused to speak to me for a month.

I was miserable.

“They hate me!” I wailed to my husband.

“Yes,” he said.

I glared at him.

“You could be useful and help me fix this,” I demanded.

“What?” he said. “You read the book. Just give them some time and space and they’ll work it out on their own.”

“What does a stupid book know?” I asked.

“The author is a doctor,” said my husband.

“Big deal.”

“She won an award.”

“Shut up,” I said.

I tried my own methods of reconciliation. Wedging myself under the couch, I managed to stroke a few stray hairs on the kittens tail. I overfed the cat more than usual.

But late at night I heard rumblings in the hall from the two cats that raised goose bumps on my spine.

The cats finally came around and deemed to be in the same room with one another. The cat stared, stricken, the first time the kitten played with her jingle ball, but she made no move to take it from her. Once the kitten realized the cat was more bluff than gruff, she ignored her.

My lot wasn’t so pleasant. Since neither cat was pleased at the presence of the other, I continued to receive only lukewarm greetings from either of them. My husband’s demeanor wasn’t much better.

So it’s up to me to mend this family rift. It will take time, patience, and perseverance, but I am up to the task.

Besides, if I fail I have a back-up plan.

I saw an ad in the paper today for free puppies.

I can’t lose.

-12- Kitty Nightingales

One Thursday night I came down with a bad cold.

I knew I faced a long night of tossing and turning, so I spared my husband my misery and opted to sleep in our guest bedroom. Miserably I sank beneath the sheets, making sure my two boxes of tissue were close at hand. My head was stopped up, my ears clogged, and it hurt to swallow.

I heard rustling and felt a soft “plop” as the kitten leapt onto the bed. She walked around my feet, a gentle purr emanating from her.

How sweet, I thought. My baby senses I’m sick and she’s here to comfor…

I was stopped in mid-thought as my Nurse Nightingale kitten threw her body weight onto my foot, wrestling it under the covers and trying to bite through the comforter to subdue it.

“No, no!” I said, shooing her away. “Mommy’s sick. No play time tonight.”

I lay back and reached down to draw the covers up around my shoulders. Big mistake. The kitten leapt superman like in the air toward my extended arm.

“ROWR!” she announced with authority as she fell on it, battling it to submission.

“Hey, ow. Hey, stop that!” I said. “Go away. Go play with your sister.”

Surprisingly, the kitten heeded my advice and went off in search of the cat. As I drifted off into a medicated sleep I could hear them chasing each other up and down the hall.

WHUMP! A kitten landed squarely on my chest. Before I found my breath to say anything she was off and running.

But then, WHUMP! The older cat in hot pursuit (and a good ten pounds heavier than the kitten) also landed on my chest, knocking the wind out of me. They circled each other a few times on the bed while I gasped for air.

“Rowr, meow,” said the kitten.

“Mrow!” warned the older cat, moving closer.

“Both of you shut up and get out of here,” I wheezed.

The kitten went on the offensive and leapt over my thigh to swat at the cat. The cat saw it coming and jumped back, landing on my head. I shoved her off and she immediately darted for the kitten who meowed in delight and raced off the bed and back down the hall.

“I am going to throw you both out,” I muttered. “Just as soon as I can stand up without feeling faint.”

Eventually, after about three hours of wrestle-mania, both cats calmed down and decided they were ready for 73 sleep. The kitten, still young enough to want to snuggle at night, found her way into my sickroom and curled up on my left side.

This brought the cat sniffing around. Independent, she has never slept with us. But she has been very aware of late of the need to keep up appearances as being just as cute and sweet as the new kitten. Seeing the kitten happily snuggled beside me the older cat sighed and plopped herself down on my right side. I was now sandwiched between two cats both of whom I found to be unnecessarily grumpy whenever I decided I needed to turn or roll over.

But the game of “I can do whatever you can” didn’t end there. The kitten decided to give herself a bath, so the cat followed suit. Now I was surrounded, unable to move, by two animals making disgusting smacking and gulping noises in the dark. I tried to send mental telepathy to my husband to race in with the NyQuil^® and knock me out.

In the morning I stumbled bleary-eyed and rednosed into the kitchen. My husband was whistling as he fixed himself breakfast.

“There she is!” he said. “How are you feeling? All better after a good nights sleep?”

I glare at him with one bleary, bloodshot eye. “We-aregetting- a-DOG,” I said through clenched teeth.

He frowned. “Why would we do that?” he asked.

“Because I need one to help me take the cats out, that’s why,” I said, slamming my cereal box on the counter.

The cats glide into the room, purring and rubbing against my husband’s ankles. “Oh, whatta matter?” he asked, picking up the kitten. “Is Mommy in a bad mood?”

The kitten playfully batted his chin. The older cat looked on, beaming. My husband reached down to scratch her under her chin.

Kitty Nightingales 74

Lessons in Stalking “Is Mommy being fussy? Yes she is. But who’s a good girl? Who are daddy’s good girls?” The cats have halo’s glowing atop them.

My husband kissed me gently on the forehead. “You’re still just feeling a bit under the weather,” he said. “Don’t take it out on the cats.” He grabbed his briefcase and waved as he walked out the door.

I perched thoughtfully on the edge of the kitchen chair as I considered my options. I know what I have to do. It will have to be a really big dog.

I’m going to have to take my husband out too.

-13- Dibbs!

Having two cats is like having two children where you must never, ever, bring something home for one without buying the exact same thing for the other. Unfortunately, our cats are a bit on the greedy side. So even when we bring home something that is not for them, but rather for us, the cats still claim ownership.

For example, we brought home a new throw rug for the kitchen floor. Nothing fancy, just a basic woven throw with tassels on the ends.

We laid it on the floor.

“What do you think?” I asked my husband.

“Looks good,” he said. “I–“

A rumbling, rushing sound filled the air as two cats careened around the corner. Eyes bulging, ears laid flat, feet racing, they were neck in neck in the home stretch. Then, in a surprise move, the kitten took a Herculean leap, passing the cat and was the first to land victoriously on the new rug.

“Mrrowr!”she screeched, spread-eagled across the fabric.

“Rowr-rrrr!” the cat yelped, looking to us as if for a judge’s call. She screeched to a halt at the edge of the rug as if an invisible barrier protected it.

The kitten smirked as she pranced around the perimeter of the new rug.

“Well, it was nice for the thirty seconds we could call it ours,” said my husband. “I’m going to watch TV.”

I glared at his retreating back. Yet again, I was left to single parent the situation. Fortunately, I had the deft touch.

“You share,” I told the kitten. “Be a good kitty. Share.”

The kitten’s idea of sharing was to settle into the middle of the rug and begin cleaning her private parts. I decided parenting was overrated and joined my husband in front of the TV.

The kitten made herself at home, not moving for the next two hours. Our entering the kitchen didn’t deter her in the least, and she went so far as to let us step over and around her as we fumbled through trying to cook and set the table.

My husband, however, made the mistake of standing on the rug as he stirred something at the stove.

A rumble emanated from deep in the kitten’s throat.

“I’d move if I were you,” I told him.

“Why?” he asked.

The kitten walked over and glared at the portion of his shoe on the mat.

“You’re on somebody’s turf,” I said.

He looked down at the scowling kitten. “I pay the mortgage,” he said. “If I want to stand on my new rug, in my kitchen, no eight pound cat is going to stop me.”

I shrugged and went back to rinsing off lettuce.

The kitten nudged his ankle with her head. When subtlety didn’t work, she went for an all out head-butt.

“Hey, cut that out,” said my husband.

The kitten whipped out her claws and targeted his sock, which unfortunately had his foot in it at the time.

“Ow. Hey. OW!” He hopped off the rug.

“Us, zero. Cats, 391,” I said. My husband glared at me.

The cat moped in the doorway, watching the kitten nap on the rug. But older and wiser, she bided her time.

Per routine, I fed the cats at five o’clock.

The cat sashayed over and planted herself in front of the kitten’s dish. The kitten sat up, alarmed. The cat smiled, and then sank her head deep into the kitten’s food.

“Rowr, rowr, psst!” yelled the kitten. My husband and I came into the kitchen. The kitten stared accusingly at the cat. “Mrow, mow, mow!”

“Well, go get your food then,” I said.

The cat hummed as she paroled the perimeter of the rug.

The kitten bit her lip and lay down on the mat.

The cat wasn’t through. She started splashing around in the water dish. Hear the water? When is the last time you went to the bathroom? Ho, hum. Splash, splash. I love playing in the runny water.

The kitten crossed her legs. She looked worried.

Splish-splash. Splish-splash. Oh, how I love the runny, full, wet, drippy water.

The kitten turned a deep shade of purple as she held her breath. Unable to bear it any longer, she tore off the rug toward the litter box. Doing her business in record time, she raced back to the mat, coming to a dismayed stop at the edge.

The cat squatted at the corner of the rug, flipping a tassel back and forth.

Do you mind? her expression said to the kitten. I’m getting ready for bed.

Me, I’m fed up. It’s impossible to be in the kitchen with territorial cats nipping at my heels and both cats toying alternatively with starvation and kidney implosion so as not to lose their claim on the rug to the other.

“We have to take action,” I tell my husband.

He sighs. “You’re right. We’ve spoiled them. But with hard work and commitment on our part, I’m sure we can teach them to do better.”

I stare at him. “What?”

He stares back. “Weren’t you going to lecture me that we need to find new ways of reward and discipline, so as to create a more fair, harmonious environment where we all learn a lesson about love and sharing?”

“Uh, no. I was going to suggest we go buy two small, crappy rugs for the hall and let them duke it out there.”

He thought for a moment. “Okay, that’s good too.”

Too bad we don’t have kids. We’d make great parents.

-14- El Toro Gato

I am envious of other people and their cats. Oftentimes it’s their close relationship and sometimes it’s just that their cats seem so…normal.

I was at a friend’s home the other day when a fluffy black and white cat with a jingling ball tied around its collar presented itself.

“Oh, how cute,” I said. “I have a tuxedo kitty too.”

“Watch this,” said my friend. She got down on all fours and the jingling kitty bounced over to her and they gently bumped heads.

“We used to just rub noses but now she likes to head butt me,” said my friend. She beamed at the El Toro cat.

“Isn’t that sweet?”

This got me thinking. Why doesn’t my cat perform cute tricks like that? She barely deems to let me touch her. As I drove home, I became more indignant. What was going on here? I pay for the food. I scoop up the kitty litter. I replace my sofa cushions monthly. I, too, deserve a head-butt.

The cat knew something was up the minute I walked in the door. This may or may not have had something to do with me immediately throwing my briefcase and purse on the table and dropping to the floor in front of her, arms splayed across the hall to prevent her untimely escape.

“Hi baby,” I said, easing my head down toward her.

“Nice kitty…”

My ophthalmologist tells me I am healing nicely and should be able to remove the eye patch within the month.

There’s a woman who writes a gardening column for the small town papers in our area. It’s the type of column I usually avoid reading as it involves things I know nothing about (dirt, nature, and enjoying dirt and nature), and never covers items I am interested in (how to air condition outside air or if it’s socially acceptable to plant fake flowers outside and try to pass them off as real).

In a recent column, this writer wrote about tales of animal heroism…three ants that worked to dislodge a splinter from the body of a fourth; mother dolphins that stayed with their babies trapped in fishermen’s nets, singing to them until both mother and infant drowned; and a group of sparrows that picked up a wounded sparrow and flew it off a busy street and into a city park. Anyone reading her article would come away with the understanding that animals are much more caring and compassionate then their human counterparts.

This woman needs to be introduced to my cats.

If I was lying stranded and bleeding in a net or on a busy street, the only reason my cats might be bothered to notice is if my mortal injuries delayed their feeding time.

Then they might nose me a bit in the hopes of encouraging me to get up and open the canister that contains their food before I expired.

But this implies my cats go outside, which they don’t.

They’ve gotten so prissy they don’t even try to hide the wrinkling of their nose, indicating distaste for my non-pleasing odor when I come in after a run. They are aghast that my parent’s dog will not only come near me but lick me when I am in this state. I see their stares of horror and try to explain it to them.

“She likes the salt,” I explain as the dog works her way up my arm.

The cats aren’t buying it. They walk away, tails in the air. I can hear their unspoken thoughts. That is just so uncouth and frankly, unsanitary. When is the last time that beast had her shots?

I hope they are referring to the dog and not to me.

Another friend walks her cat on a leash. “He loves it,” she brags. “He sits still whenever I get the harness out.”

I passed this information on to my husband.

“NO,” he said.

“No what?” I asked.

“No, we are not harnessing the cats,” he answered.

“I didn’t say I wanted to,” I said. “I was just telling you…”

“And you can’t make me,” he said crossing his arms.

“What? I never…”

“You can’t make me and I will leave you if you try to make me,” he said. “I’m a person too and I have rights and one of my rights is to not knowingly place myself in harms way.”

I rolled my eyes. “For heaven’s sake, I didn’t mean…”

He held his hand up, palm facing me. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s my final word.”

I sighed. “Well, okay, if you feel that strong, I guess you win. We won’t harness the cats.”

“Really? I won? I never win. Wow. I won. That’s great.”

A smile broke over his face and he wandered off toward the kitchen.

Well, what the heck. It just gives me more bargaining power for our next discussion. Which I happen to know centers around an agonizing amount of back work for him and a new garden for me.

Harness, indeed.

-15- Bath Time

Pots and pans flew, foundations rattled, and howls reached the heavens.

It was time to bathe the cats.

“Bloody hell,” growled my husband, attempting to hold a snarling cat under the waterspout. The kitten had knocked the kitchen phone off the hook and was frantically trying to reach PETA.

“You got it, you got it,” I encouraged my husband from across the room. I didn’t dare get any closer for fear of being mauled.

This was the ultimate exercise in stupidity. Everyone knows cats bathe themselves. But I’d read a magazine article that touted the benefits of semi-annual bathing and decided our cats deserved only the best. And for this decision, my husband’s life now stood in danger.

“Come here and help me,” he barked.

The drenched cat’s eyes glowed a malevolent red.

She’d been around long enough to suspect the reason she was wet and miserable in the first place probably originated with me. Now as she heard me summoned, an evil grin spread across her face.

“Um, maybe not,” I said, backing against the wall.

“I’ve got to get the rest of these suds off her,” he begged.

“Now please, come here.”

I reluctantly crossed the room. The cat flexed her right paw, extending and retracting the claw. I looked over to the corner where the kitten sat by the phone. She saw me watching her and immediately assumed the defensive Okinawa Crane pose from the Karate Kid movie. Back arched, she swayed on one foot, daring me to approach. No help there.

After ten minutes, four plastic cups, and a near-filing for divorce, we got the cat rinsed and released.

I turned to the kitten while my husband dabbed rubbing alcohol on his wounds.

“I’ll take defense, you play offense,” I told him, swatting his bottom in what I hoped was a gesture of encouragement. “Go get her, tiger!”

He abandoned dabbing and poured the alcohol over both arms, wincing.

“No. I’m not going back in.”

“But we can’t have only one clean cat!”

The look he gave me suggested I back slowly from the room.

I kept my distance from him, and the cat, who was none too pleased the kitten had escaped the watery ordeal. In fact, since this bathing episode I’ve awakened during the night with the feeling of being watched…or stalked. It turns out to be my cat perched beside me, waiting for the right moment to take revenge.

At least that’s my take. My husband says I’m imagining things and the cat has long since forgotten about the bath, but I’m not so sure.

I may have the kitten teach me that Okinawa Crane technique.

Just in case.

-16- Jingle Ball Horrors

As a responsible pet guardian, I make sure to keep up on the latest recommendations and innovations in pet care by reading the ripped and wadded up back issues of cat magazines at my vets every six months when I herd the cats there for their biannual shots.

The most recent article I read discussed the importance of playtime with your feline companions. Pets, the article emphasized, love and rely on playtime with their owners.

It is a time of bonding and, if done regularly, will be something a pet looks forward to with excited anticipation every day.

See, here all along I had assumed our cats were happy stuffing their faces and then laying belly up in the sun for eight hour stretches. Little did I suspect that behind those full bellies and warm fur, kitty hearts were breaking because they did not have a regularly scheduled playtime with me.

I set about to remedy the situation.

Walking in the door with purchases from the pet store, I felt confident one of the bags I held contained the secret to unlocking shared fun for me and my cats. I started out simple with their favorite toy from kittenhood, the cotton mouse.

“Here kitties,” I said, dangling a bright yellow cotton mouse by its tail. “Come play.”

The cat scratched her nose in her sleep and rolled over.

I tried the kitten. “See the mouse? Want to get the mouse?”

The kitten sat up and yawned. I was encouraged. At least one of them was awake.

I dug in the bag and pulled out rubber cheese.

“Oooooh,” I exclaimed. “Look at the pretty cheese. Who wants to try and eat the pretty cheese?”

The kitten looked at the cat who gave a I have no idea but just ignore her and maybe she’ll leave shrug.

I clapped my hands. “Hey,” I announced. “You two are supposed to want to play with me, I bought all these toys, so guess what? We are going to play together. Now then.”

I pulled two identical candy-cane striped jingle balls out of the bag. Jingle, jingle. Jingle, jingle. They made a happy noise.

The cats lay back down and turned their backs to me.

“Aw, c’mon!” I begged. “One round of chase the jingle ball. Here, I’ll show you how.”

And so it was I found myself rolling a jingle ball down the hallway and running after to retrieve and roll it again 95 and again. I was panting when I returned to the cats after five rounds.

“See?” I huffed. “It’s not so…”

But they were gone. I searched the house until I found the cat munching nibbles out of the kitten’s dish and the kitten wedging herself under the dining room credenza in the hopes of hiding from me.

“Fine, you win,” I said, abandoning the toys in the middle of the floor. “We won’t play.”

Cut to two AM and my husband and I warm under the blankets and deep in our dreams.

Jingle, jingle. Jingle, jingle.

My husband rolled over. “Wass’ that?” he mumbled.

Jingle, jingle.

“I bought the cats some toys,” I said. “They didn’t like them. Just wait a minute and they’ll quit.”

Jingle, jingle. Jingle, jingle. Jingle, jingle. Jingle, jingle.

Annoying, but bearable. Bearable that is, until the cats discovered how much better the balls sounded on hardwood floors.

JNGLE JINGLE. JINGLE JINGLE. JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE

JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE.

Pause.

JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE

JINGLE.

Two hours later and there was no end in sight. Not only were the cats enthralled with their new playtime of “Chase the jingle ball,” they also discovered a love of the game “Keep Away.” As in every time we got out of bed to take the balls from them, they hid them somewhere unfindable, sitting and staring at us until we returned to bed. Then they retrieved the balls and reinstated soccer practice on the hardwoods outside our bedroom.

It’s been a week, and I still can’t find those jingle balls.

The cats obviously have some secret hiding place they won’t divulge. But I know they’re out there. Because late at night, deep in the recesses of the house, drawing closer, we hear them coming.

Jingle, jingle.

Sometimes we hold each other and cry.

Those stupid pet magazines.

-17- The Creature Under the Fridge

At first I didn’t believe there was anything living beneath our refrigerator. I thought the cats were just messing with us.

But I reconsidered. We live in a large historic home and have had our fair run of mice over the years. Usually they enter through the large wooden cupboard next to the stove where we store our Tupperware^®. But the cats weren’t paying any attention to the cupboard. Their attention was focused under the fridge.

They prowled along the baseboards, sniffing so hard their bodies shook with the effort. Deep growls emanated from their throats. They would lie on the wooden floor, tails twitching, just watching, waiting.

I became wary of going near the fridge. All I could picture was a small, furry rodent scurrying over my bare foot in the morning as I reached for the orange juice. I started standing as far back from the door as possible and leaning my body in to grab whatever snack I needed before hurrying to the other side of the kitchen. The cats observed my discomfort and acted accordingly.

The next time I entered the kitchen, both cats were lying contently. But as I neared the fridge the older cat tensed her body, and scootched on her stomach closer to the fridge, peering intently beneath. Her tail whipped back and forth in warning.

“What is it?” I whispered. “Do you see the mouse?”

The cat gave me a we-have-a-situation-here look that indicated I could help most by shutting up. I scurried out of the kitchen.

The next day the kitten joined in the fun. The minute I stepped into the kitchen she raced toward the fridge and plunged both paws underneath. I leapt onto the countertop.

“What is it?” I cried. “Did you get it?” The kitten frowned and paced in front of the fridge. I decided breakfast wasn’t that important of a meal and I would just skip it. Maybe forever.

And so it went. The cats stood guard for hours at a time.

At night I would feel my way through darkened halls to the kitchen for a glass of water and there they were, waiting, their slanted eyes glittering in the pale moonlight filtering in through the window.

The cats refused to leave their guardposts, and the creature under the fridge grew in my mind to epic proportions of filth, hair, and malicious intent. I started giving the cats 101 extra snacks to keep their strength up.

“Be good girls,” I told them. “Catch the mouse for Mommy.”

I spoke to my husband about calling in an exterminator.

Or an army of them.

“What for?” he asked.

“To kill the creature under the fridge,” I said.

“What creature?” he asked.

“Oh my God, are you blind?” I said. “The cats won’t leave that spot. There is obviously some huge, horrible, fanged mutant mouse thing that has taken refuge in our home.

Probably the only reason we haven’t been eaten alive is because our babies are protecting us.”

He smirked. “The only reason the cats sit there is because you feed them every time you walk by. If I’m the only one home, they just lie around the front room.”

I stared at him, sure I heard wrong. Was he inferring that my babies would intentionally mislead me, purely for their own gain? But my husband is an intelligent and astute man, an honest man. It came down to having to believe the love of my life or thinking something slightly ill of my cats. It was a simple choice.

“You are full of it,” I told him. “I’m telling you the cats are on the scent and there is something huge and horrible under there. Now please, call in the National Guard.”

As we entered the kitchen, both cats snapped to attention.

The older cat approached the fridge and growled.

The kitten hissed and arched her back. Both peered hopefully up at me from the corners of their eyes.

Squatting on all fours, my husband peered under the fridge. Grimacing, he reached for the broom and raked out four bouncy balls coated in grime, two browned and wilted pieces of lettuce, 14 marbles (I don’t even want to hazard a guess), three pieces of pasta, and a Christmas ornament we lost two years ago.

He started to get up, took a second look, and eased the broom back under the fridge. As he drew the broom toward us, I glimpsed something brown and dirty. Then the cats were upon it. All we could see were claws, ears, and tails. I screamed, my husband tried to pull the cats away, and marbles rolled everywhere. When the cats finally separated we looked down and saw…nothing. Whatever had been pulled out was now no more than a few stray wisps of cobweb, some lint, and lunch in our cats’ stomachs.

“I told you so,” my husband and I said at the same time.

He looked at me. “There was no creature.”

I looked back. “There most certainly was. Did you not see the cats go berserk?”

“Yes, over an old mouse toy.”

“Or a man-eating rodent.”

“Was not.”

“Was too.”

“Was not.”

“Was too.”

The disagreement continues to this day. I suspect his insistence that there was nothing under the fridge is simply a manly cover to conceal his fear of the beast that almost destroyed us.

So I’ve explained to the cats that even if Daddy won’t acknowledge it, we are both extremely grateful for their saving our lives from the horrible fanged mutant creature that surely lived under our fridge.

-18- Can You See Me?

When she was little, my sister used to poke her fingers beneath the bathroom door and wiggle them.

“Can you see me?” she’d ask.

“Go away,” whoever was inside would answer.

She would shove her hand further beneath the door.

“Now? Can you see me now?”

“Yes, I see you now. Can you please go away for a few minutes?”

The hand would disappear and there would be a light thud as she leaned her small body against the door.

“When are you coming out?”

We were all happy to see that phase end, and I thought my days of being stalked while on the toilet were over. I admit to giggling when friends moaned about how their children never left them alone, even when they were in the bathroom.

“Should’ve had cats,” I informed them smugly.

But my life of bathroom solitude has been upended.

Both cats have recently decided they can’t abide a closed door, be it a closet door, bedroom door, or—you guessed it—bathroom door.

They scared the daylights out of me the first time. I woke in the middle of the night and felt my way to the bathroom. Half asleep, I sat on the toilet, when suddenly, “Whump!” The bathroom door flew open and a small tabby cat stood illuminated in the doorway. She gazed steadily at me before turning away. My heart raced. I felt like I’d been given a warning visit by the kitty Mafia.

Keep the door open, or else.

I alerted my husband the next morning. “Better lock the door when you’re in the bathroom.”

“Why? Is asking you to stay out not enough?”

“No, it’s the cats,” I said, looking over my shoulder. “They don’t like closed doors.”

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly. “And I should be concerned…why?”

But Mister Oh-so-smart wasn’t laughing when the cats body-slammed the bathroom door open while he was reading Newsweek. I was upstairs when I heard his call for help.

“Would you get the cats out of here?” he asked. “I can’t do this with them watching.”

So we started locking the door. That’s when tiny paws began to appear underneath the door.

It was cute for a while. A tiny white paw would slide beneath the door and tap the floor.

Can you see me?

But then there was the talking. Finding the door wouldn’t budge and unable to reach us from beneath the door, the cats would sit outside the locked door and “talk” to the person inside.

“Mrow. Rowr-rowr. Mow?”

When are you coming out?

The best though, was coming home early and finding both cats sitting outside the bathroom where my husband had locked himself in. He was talking back to them.

“Rowr? Meow, meow,” said the cats.

“Yeah, I know. I hate when that happens,” he answered through the closed door.

“Purr, rowr-meow.”

“Really? So what did you tell them?”

“Mow! Psfft! Meow.”

“Ah, ha ha,” he said. “You are so clever.”

“Honey?” I knocked. “Everything okay?”

There was a moment of silence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he called back.

I wasn’t letting him off that easy. I squatted on the floor and wriggled my fingers beneath the door. “Can you see me?”

I asked.

“Go away,” he growled.

I scratched on the door. “So when are you coming out?”

“The minute I do I’m having you committed,” he warned. “Go away!”

And so it went. We had pretty much resigned ourselves to a life of potty-patrol, when luck struck. Running into the house one day, I dashed for the bathroom without bothering to close the door. No cats appeared. Excellent. I shared my discovery that night with my husband.

“I broke the code!” I said. “We need to adopt an opendoor policy. If you don’t close the door, they take no interest in what you’re doing in there.”

He seemed less than thrilled. “But I like closing the door.”

I sighed. “Pee with an audience outside a closed door or do your business in peace with an open one. It’s your choice.”

“I miss our life before cats,” he said.

He has a point. It was nice when we had some say so over the ajar status of doors in our home. Still, even with all the bother, it’s nice knowing you are so important to someone that every minute apart counts.

“Mrow?”

Yes, I’ll be out soon.

-19- Tacky Tape Sucks & Other Reasons I Can’t Own Nice Furniture

Tacky Tape. Transparent, thin pieces of what is essentially two-sided tape which may be applied directly to fabric to keep cats from using furniture as sharpening posts.

In bold letters on the package front it advertises that Tacky Tape “STOPS CATS FROM DESTROYING FURNITURE.”

Right.

After spending twenty minutes removing the individual Tacky Tape strips from their brown base sheet and positioning the sticky side down on my furniture, then cracking and peeling the white application paper on top to reveal the exterior sticky side (Apparently you must have some sort of science degree to properly mount your Tacky Tape. Liberal Arts majors beware), I managed to end up surrounded by twenty balled up wads of Tacky Tape.

Miraculously, I managed to apply the last two strips to our twin library chairs where our cats love to sharpen their claws.

The idea of Tacky Tape is that when your cat reaches up to claw the chair their paw will stick to the tape. They will not enjoy this sensation and will be cured for life from any lingering desire to use said chair for sharpening their claws.

You betcha.

It almost worked on the kitten. She walked up to the tape and gave a hesitant sniff. She sat by the corner of the chair, unsure how to proceed. The cat had no such qualms.

She marched up to the Tacky Tape and batted at it. This slight motion knocked half the Tacky Tape off the chair, so it was now fluttering like a banner in the wind. The cat went in for the kill, grabbed the fluttering end of the tape in her mouth and pulled the Tacky Tape (“STOPS CATS FROM DESTROYING

FURNITURE”) off the chair and onto the floor where she proceeded to make origami animals out of it.

We gave up on the Tacky Tape. (I was still incensed about the swan the cat made from the last ball of tape.) We had other things to worry about. Namely, our upcoming meeting with the designer who was to help us select fabric for our new couch.

The meeting started on a positive note. We explained to the designer we were looking for a couch that was both casual and elegant, something you’d feel comfortable lying on to watch TV or inviting guests to sit on. We spoke in hushed, modulated tones, and the designer nodded 113 approvingly and said she had several beautiful fabrics she thought would meet our needs.

She brought the first one out and my husband and I exchanged a troubled glance. It was a weave pattern with tiny threads in crisscross stitches just begging to be plucked apart by sharp kitty claws. We exclaimed over the beauty of the fabric but said it wasn’t quite what we were looking for.

No problem, said the designer. She returned with a stunning floral fabric of silk brocade flowers. She was raving about the timeless statement of classic elegance such a fabric boasted when I interrupted.

“Um, I don’t think that’s for us.”

The designer kept her smile in place. “And why not?”

I gave a nervous laugh and looked at my husband who shrugged. “Well, you see, our cats would destroy the threads in those flowers before we even got the plastic off the couch.”

“Ah, I see,” said the designer, never losing her smile.

“Well, we have many different fabrics so I’m sure we’ll find the right one for you.”

Two hours and fifty fabric samples later we left the designer in a sobbing huddled mass in the corner of her store. We had categorically rejected every piece she brought out. Too woven, too many threads, too much fringe, no tassels allowed, dark colors show cat hair. I knew it was time to leave when the designer presented us with a piece of burlap and wished us the best of luck.

So we sit at home and dream about the day when we’ll be able to pick out furniture we actually like and not furniture designed to withstand World War III. Until then, we’re taking the advice of designers everywhere and using accent pieces to try and dress up the house.

The Tacky Tape swan, in particular we feel, lends a touch of elegance to our home.

-20- Morning Revelry

My husband and I consider ourselves adults. We hold jobs, pay bills, and brush regularly. Yet every morning at five AM we are forced to feign death in the hopes of catching just a little more shut-eye. Basically, we’re two thirty-five year olds playing possum.

We lay side-by-side in bed, motionless, feigning deepsleep breathing. Aware that each other is awake, but neither willing to admit it, we are careful not to roll over, cough, or show any sign of life.

The reason for us lying statue-like is a small, furry creature perched on a chair across from our bed, right under the windows. It is our kitten, who has decided she is hungry.

She knows food is forthcoming only after one of the large two-legged creatures she lives with gets out of bed. Therefore, she is on a mission.

“Mrow,” she says.

It’s crucial not to be the first to move. The bed is soft and warm, the stakes are high. We make little smacking sounds with our lips, trying to convince the other we are really asleep.

The kitten hops off the chair, crosses the floor, and leaps onto the bed, which is to my advantage. I love the feel of a small cat crawling over me. My husband, on the other hand, does not.

She purrs around our heads, encouraging us to wake up. I don’t move. I feel my husband clench and unclench his fists. Sitting up, he deposits the kitten on the floor. He punches his pillow and quickly lies back down.

Wife – 1, Husband – 0.

Having seen signs of life, the kitten is encouraged. She hops back up on the chair and starts batting the wooden window blinds against the glass. The bedroom vibrates with the reverberations.

After a few minutes of the wooden blind death rattle, the kitten appears to have given up. There is silence. We both relax and start to drift back into real sleep.

“Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching.” She’s back, having located her jingle ball and nudged it into our bedroom. She is now under our bed, racing in circles as she chases it around.

“Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching.”

I bite my lip and taste the sweat there. She’s good.

The noise of the jingle ball has brought the cat on the run. She’s constantly afraid we’re playing with the kitten and forgetting to include her. She breathes a sigh of relief when she sees the kitten playing solo and two lumps still tucked 117 in bed. Unfortunately, seeing us tucked in and comfortable reminds her she’s hungry too, and the cats decide to doubleteam us.

The cat takes over jingle ball duties (ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching), while the kitten hops back up to the blinds. (Rattle rattle. Rattle rattle.)

The bedroom is a cacophony of noise: Ka-ching, rattlerattle, ka-ching, rattle rattle. Ka-ching, rattle, ka-ching, rattle.

I can’t stand it any more. “Shut up!” I yell at the cats.

My husband’s voice comes muffled from under the covers.

“You spoke first. You lose. Go feed them so I can get some sleep.”

I rip the covers off him. I am not in the best of humor in the mornings, especially at five AM.

“You were the one who sat up and put the kitten on the floor so technically you were awake first and you should be the one to get up.”

“If you heard me put the kitten on the floor that means you were awake and just pretending to be asleep, which is a terrible thing to do, so you should be the one to get up.”

“No, you.”

“No, you.”

“Mrow-rowr!!” wail both cats. They pick up the pace.

Ka-ching-rattle, ka-ching-rattle.

I hold my hands over my ears and glare at my husband.

“Get up.”

He pulls the covers up and rolls over. “Eat dirt.”

I lay back down. “If you’re not getting up, I’m not getting up.”

We lie in bed and glare at the ceiling. There is no hope of either of us getting any more sleep.

I turn my head and look at my husband. “Together on the count of three?”

He nods.

“One…”

We roll the covers back.

“Two…”

We both put a foot on the floor and look suspiciously at one another.

“Three!” He stands up and I fling myself back into bed.

Wife - 2, Husband – 0.

An hour later guilt overtakes me and I pad out to the kitchen where he is sitting and put my arms around him, kissing the top of his head.

“How about if I promise to be the one to get up and feed the cats tomorrow?” I ask.

“That’s what you said yesterday.”

I sigh. He’s right. My intentions are good, but when it’s 5 AM and cold and dark outside the warmth of the bed, I know I will once again feign death in the hopes he’ll get up first. And he’ll do the same.

But we are united on one front.

The cats are comatose on the couch, satiated and asleep.

We sneak up behind them and on the count of three I rattle the blinds while he wings a jingle ball along the floor.

The cats hit the ceiling.

That’s right, baby. Score one for the humans.