There is a cat that lives in my apartment. She is not my cat, but she lives with me none the less.
She will heretofore be known as Cat1.
Cat has belonged to my roommate, Iowa2, since she moved to Chicago two years ago. Cat has never seen beyond the four walls and one room of our apartment, other than her brief tenure at the pet store where her life began. She spends her days alternately engaged in one of three activities: one, watching the L train pass the window; two, loving on Iowa; three, hating me.
Cat does not particularly like me, and I don’t particularly like her. But at least it’s mutual.
Having grown up in a house with a rotating cast of dogs that weighed more than I did, two of the last words I would use to describe myself are “cat person.” I do not like cats. I have never liked cats. And I am fairly confident that I will never like cats. And, though I came into this relationship willing to give things a chance, I have yet to meet a cat that has changed my opinion of cats.
I especially do not like Cat.
Iowa and I have been both been gone this week – Iowa went home for a few days, and I was having grown up life adventures in Maryland.
Cat was not happy about this.
Cat was even less happy when it was me that walked through the door yesterday morning and not Iowa.
So, on top of her usual aloof standoffishness, Cat has been going out of her way to torment me until her mistress returns home.
And so, for the past two days, Cat and I have had a less than playful back and forth thing going on. I refuse to pet her. She bites my leg. I try to pet her. She bites my leg. I push her off the couch when she chews on my Duluth pack3. She bites my leg. I try to shut her head in the refrigerator4. She bites my leg. I leave for several hours to go to church. She poops all over the apartment, walks in that poop, and then tracks it all over the carpet. Which does not seem like a proportional response.
Now, after the arduous and odorous experience of de-pooping the entire apartment, I am sitting on the sofa, and Cat is sitting on the sofa above my head, staring unblinkingly at me with those unnervingly large green eyes. Which is freaking me out, because I feel like she’s sizing me up to fillet me. Occasionally, I will try to make peace with her; I will reach up to give her a scratch behind the ears. And she will lunge at me, jaws spread wide, with the intention of taking off my finger. Then I call her a name, and we both go back to what we were doing before.
I do not like Cat.
- I considered calling her “The Cat,” but having just watched BBC Sherlock’s “A Scandal in Belgravia,” this somehow felt disrespectful to Irene Adler.
- Since my blog has been getting traffic that extends beyond my family and friends, I’ve decided not to call people by their names in this blog without their permission, mostly because I had a dream about someone getting mad at me for writing mean things about them. So if you are ever mentioned on the blog, it will be under an alias. Which could be exciting for you.
- In unrelated news, my Duluth pack is the best investment I have ever made. There is no way in hell I am letting Cat get her razor choppers around it.
- Calm down PETA, I’m exaggerating for dramatic effect. But seriously, the thing where she tries to climb in the fridge every time I open it is driving me crazy.