by Dena Harris
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.”