Cats Don't Get Mad; They Get Even
Fang has been cured! At least for now. His gooey back is nice and dry and pink and bald. His runny nose isn't so runny and he isn't barfing his "Hills Prescription Diet" food. All is well in kitty land. I guess now that he's healthy, he feels like it's time to become more cat-like and do normal, annoying cat things. Maybe he feels the need to get even for all the poking and med-dispensing I've done. And so begins a new chapter in pet ownership.
Every night, starting around nine, my cat roams from room to room wailing like a fucking banshee. At first I'd go running to his side, thinking he needed immediate medical attention--as if both eyes had _just_ been yanked from his skull--or thinking he was trying to alert me of impending doom, like an intruder crawling through the kitchen window. It turned very Lassie-esque, me asking him what his major malfunction was; "Is Timmy in the well? Is the barn on fire?" The next phase was what I'd call kid-at-bedtime mode. As it neared his witching hour, I'd be sure his dish had chilled Britta-filtered water along side a heaping pile of fresh kibble, I'd clean out his litter box and give him lots of luvies and extra reassurance. Then I thought he was possessed or communicating with the dead. Why else would he throw those guttural yowls at the ceiling of my bedroom? Now I ignore him. But it takes a good ten minutes for the damned cat to realize I'm not buying his act. Near the end he gets really insistent, moving from long, drawn-out cries to short, loud spats, like he's saying "Hey! Bitch! I'm talkin' to YOU!" Finally he gives up and resorts to one last heavy sigh, flopping down on the carpet and vigorously licking his ball sack...or what's left of it.
Another new trick of his is the feline version of the long jump. He prefers to do his calisthenics between midnight and dawn, starting at the apartment door, running full throttle to my room and losing contact with the floor a good seven feet from my bed, only to land directly--and with full force--on my sleeping breasts. I jerk up out of my slumber frightened and gasping for breath only to be greeted again by a bounding cat, who, by this time, has completed another lap to the door and back and flies into my bewildered head. It's kind of like those old comedy shows where the unsuspecting guy turns around and gets a pie right in the kisser. But with this it's a cat in the face. And it's not funny.
When I do realize what is happening, and that indeed, my cat is neurotic and needs to be euthenized RIGHT NOW, he turns on the charm and becomes the needy, lovey kitten I've always wanted. He nuzzles and "kneads bread" on my leg while I pet him, all the while purring. After my pulse goes down and I slide back into REM mode, I'm positive my little Fangus is quietly snickering and deciding which new trick to pull from his bag of mind-fucks. Yet I love him.
Every night, starting around nine, my cat roams from room to room wailing like a fucking banshee. At first I'd go running to his side, thinking he needed immediate medical attention--as if both eyes had _just_ been yanked from his skull--or thinking he was trying to alert me of impending doom, like an intruder crawling through the kitchen window. It turned very Lassie-esque, me asking him what his major malfunction was; "Is Timmy in the well? Is the barn on fire?" The next phase was what I'd call kid-at-bedtime mode. As it neared his witching hour, I'd be sure his dish had chilled Britta-filtered water along side a heaping pile of fresh kibble, I'd clean out his litter box and give him lots of luvies and extra reassurance. Then I thought he was possessed or communicating with the dead. Why else would he throw those guttural yowls at the ceiling of my bedroom? Now I ignore him. But it takes a good ten minutes for the damned cat to realize I'm not buying his act. Near the end he gets really insistent, moving from long, drawn-out cries to short, loud spats, like he's saying "Hey! Bitch! I'm talkin' to YOU!" Finally he gives up and resorts to one last heavy sigh, flopping down on the carpet and vigorously licking his ball sack...or what's left of it.
Another new trick of his is the feline version of the long jump. He prefers to do his calisthenics between midnight and dawn, starting at the apartment door, running full throttle to my room and losing contact with the floor a good seven feet from my bed, only to land directly--and with full force--on my sleeping breasts. I jerk up out of my slumber frightened and gasping for breath only to be greeted again by a bounding cat, who, by this time, has completed another lap to the door and back and flies into my bewildered head. It's kind of like those old comedy shows where the unsuspecting guy turns around and gets a pie right in the kisser. But with this it's a cat in the face. And it's not funny.
When I do realize what is happening, and that indeed, my cat is neurotic and needs to be euthenized RIGHT NOW, he turns on the charm and becomes the needy, lovey kitten I've always wanted. He nuzzles and "kneads bread" on my leg while I pet him, all the while purring. After my pulse goes down and I slide back into REM mode, I'm positive my little Fangus is quietly snickering and deciding which new trick to pull from his bag of mind-fucks. Yet I love him.
posted by Hootah at 9:11 PM
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