by
January 25, 2003
Despite my blood oaths to the contrary, I have once
again become a cat owner.
I like cats, I really do. Dogs are too high maintenance and it isn't fair to keep
one in the city. Cats on the other hand, are relatively easy to care for and
despite being allergic to them, the feline personality and my own are
disturbingly similar. I get along well with cats, although they are frequently
indifferent, disdainful and inattentive unless they want something from you--
it's almost like having a boyfriend.
I adopted two kittens -- 8 month old jet black furballs who were alleged to be
littermates. I named them Annie and Ivan the Terrible (an inspired choice, as it
turned out).
Annie is small and delicate -- quite the little princess. She's jet black with a
white stripe along the length of her plumed tail.
Ivan, on the other hand, appears to be a co-dependent panther cub possessed
by the spirit of Satan and suffering from at least two personality disorders. I
have no doubt that in a former life, he was an SAS assassin. At 9 months old,
this "kitten" weighed in at 14 pounds and easily reached my waist if he stood
on his back paws. He is now somewhere in the vicinity of 16 pounds and is the
size of a small dog. He regularly opens the fridge and rummages around for
edibles and amuses himself by throwing my boots down the staircase in the
wee hours and shredding my silk curtains.
Ivan falls into despair if I am not catering to him 100% of the time. To ensure
my undivided attention, he has developed the habit of leaping without warning
from the floor onto my head, usually from behind. Should I attempt to
dislodge him (to treat the head wounds, for example), he responds by grappling
me by the throat and sinking his teeth into my ears. My howls of pain incite
him to further violence and on one occasion, I only got rid of him by stepping
into the shower and turning it on full blast.
Walking from the kitchen with my morning coffee --a chore I once performed
while still bleary with sleep -- has now left me feeling like a contestant on
Survivor.
He hides under tables, bed or chairs -- and on one memorable occasion, on top
of the fridge -- and picks his moment. It took a heart-stopping week of being
bloody and drenched in scalding coffee for me to begin wearing a sidearm (at
first a small squirt gun -- now a top of the line Supersoaker with a 30 foot
range) in order to discourage his ongoing assaults -- or at least to fool myself
into believing that I was evening the odds.
Given his skill as an acrobat, lightning speed and apparent ability to render
himself invisible, I'm still going through a fair amount of polysporin.
At bedtime, he is overcome with love. He insists on licking my face, usually
right after he has washed his butt. While this is adorable in its own way, I now
have a huge, weeping patch of raw skin on my nose, an area he has marked for
repeated and meticulous attention. Should I attempt to deflect him, he will
content himself with trying to remove my earrings with his teeth. Any efforts
to place him at the foot of the bed will result in night-long guerilla attacks on
any limbs I am foolish enough to twitch.
But at least I have someone to share my cat chow with.
Till next time.
Morrigan
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