Lessons In Stalking: Adjusting to Life With Cats (3 page)

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Yoga Cat

I took up yoga two years ago, around the same time we got our cat. Having read that owning a cat and practicing yoga were both fail-safe methods to soothe troubled nerves, I envisioned a life filled with peace and inner reflection.

Now two years wiser, I know that people who own cats do yoga simply to release the stress in their lives that exists because they own a cat.

My cat mocks me while I do yoga. As I sit on my padded blue mat, tangled up in a pose the human body, or at least my body, was not meant to perform, she’ll sit beside me and perform the same pose flawlessly.

“Now, raise your right leg, keeping your left leg fully extended,” coos my video yoga instructor. “Balance on your sitting bones, and raise the leg over your head.”

Puffing and grunting, I try to extend my leg. Without breaking a sweat, the cat plops herself down beside me and raises her right leg over her head, making sure her back leg remains fully extended. I look over at her. She looks back and, pointedly, bends down and licks herself without lowering the leg.

I find this insulting.

I decide I need more personalized instruction and sign up at our local Y, paying $75 to have a certified yoga instructor twist me into painful and humiliating poses. But the cat is not there, executing a better version of “Downward Facing Dog” than me, so it’s bearable.

“You’re doing very well,” encourages my instructor.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m trying to impress my cat.”

The instructor backs away, and avoids me for the rest of the class. But I don’t mind. I am raising and extending my legs at an advanced rate. I can’t wait to show the cat.

I return home and pull out my mat. The cat looks pleased. It’s been a few days since she’s humiliated me.

“Ha! That’s only what you think is going to happen,” I say. “Watch this!” I proceed to execute a flawless “Dead-bug” pose. The cat looks amused.

“That’s not all,” I say. “I can also do this!” I move into Downward Facing Dog, remembering to breathe, as my instructor said.

The cat ambles over, takes a seat next to my head, and stares at me. My arms begin to tremble, but I refuse to give up the pose. The cat continues to stare, glancing significantly at my now shaking torso. I am no longer breathing properly.

In fact, I think I am close to hyperventilating. The cat begins to purr.

I can’t go any further. I collapse onto the mat. I’m pretty sure I’ve strained something. I can’t locate exactly where at the moment, because my entire body is trembling.

Now that I’m on the floor, the cat yawns and stretches, fully extending her front legs and arching her back. She holds the pose. And holds it. And holds it. And darn it all, she’s breathing. Releasing the pose, she takes a deep cleansing breath. Her final word on the subject is to claw at my yoga mat before exiting the room.

The phone rings. It’s my yoga instructor.

“I was wondering if you wanted to sign up for our next series of classes,” she said. “You were making such good progress.”

I think about the physical anguish, and sweat, of the yoga class. Then I ponder the money spent to experience this pain. I tell the instructor I will not be returning to class.

If it’s pain I’m after, I can get that at home for free.

I’ll just do yoga with my cat.

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Kitty Chow

I am engaged in a battle of will against my cat. The upsetting part is that I’m losing.

Here’s the scenario. While batting her food around one day (because apparently we can’t eat it until first we’ve stalked it), the cat accidentally swatted a kibble into her water dish. That was good for about three minutes of fun as she sprayed water all over the kitchen floor in an attempt to remove the food. When she tired of seeing me on my hands and knees with a towel, she finally used her paw to scoop the food out of the dish and onto her mat. Then she ate it.

Of course “she ate it” is an understatement. Could she speak, the cat would say the skies opened and the heavens sang. We don’t feed our cats moist food because I don’t want to deal with half-used cans of smelly cat food in my fridge.

(They might overpower the odor of the half-used cans of smelly human food we keep in there). But having discovered the joys of moistened food, there was no going back.

In fact, the cat liked the wet food so much, she now refuses to eat her food until we pour it into her water bowl, let it soak for about 20 seconds, and then dump it…where?

Back into the food dish? Oh no, too easy.

No, the watery mess must be poured onto the food mat, in the exact place where she first discovered the delightful delicacy of kitty-chow con aqua.

If we pour it back in the dish, she won’t eat it. If she doesn’t see us dump the food in the water (I tried to save time and just wet the food at the sink), she won’t eat it. Her Highness is very particular. And though I try to resist, I can’t stand to see her not eat so I give in.

This isn’t the first time I’ve caved. Early on, the cat insisted on stalking her food. This wouldn’t have been so bad if she were an outdoor or barn cat with an ample supply of field mice and squirrels to keep her busy. What made the situation awkward is that she is an indoor cat, and the food she was stalking was IAMS
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Indoor Cat Formula at almost fifteen dollars per two-pound bag.

She refused to eat the food unless we threw it across the floor, allowing her the opportunity to leap and pounce before savagely ripping the kibble to pieces. Sometimes she’d bat the kibbles across the floor and chase them. Other times, she’d run and hide beneath a kitchen chair, tail flinching to and fro, planning the moment of her attack.

My husband has no patience for this sort of behavior. If I dare complain that I am tired of throwing food across the 41 floor or staring at wet cat chow on the mat, I am harassed with, “Well, what do you expect? You baby her way too much.

If you just leave the food in the dish she’ll eventually get hungry and eat it.”

And he has a point. I mean, what’s wrong with me that I bend so easily to the will of a fifteen-pound cat?

The answer is simple. I do it because she’s cute. And she purrs really loud when I dump the food in the water, and even louder when she sees me scoop it onto the mat.

Seriously, how many chances in life do you get to make someone that happy?

When I point this out my husband just stares at me.

“You’re nuts,” is the only counterargument I receive. From this I conclude I have won our war of verbal sparring. In triumph, I toss the cat a kibble across the floor.

Still, I admit I’d like to be able to just pour the cat food in the bowl and move on with life. My husband insists he can help me wean the cat toward accepting our feeding rules; those being that the cat food goes in the bowl, dry, and stays there. Needless to say, the cat is not pleased with these new rules, which she vocalizes loudly.

“Mrow?” (Translation: What’s going on? Why is the food in my dish?)

“Mrow? Rowr? Mrow?” (Hello? Anyone? Hello?)

“Mrow? Rowr, meow. Mo-ow??” (Lady, get it in gear. I don’t eat out of a dish. Re-mem-ber??)

Receiving no response she resorts to bad language.

“ROWR-FSST?!?”

At this I throw a pleading glance at my husband. He doesn’t even look up from his paper. “Ignore it,” he says, turning the page.

I do ignore it. At least until he leaves the house. The cat and I both watch him pull his car down the drive. She looks at me.

“Wait for it,” I say. My husband honks his horn goodbye.

The cat looks at me again, ears perked. I give her the nod. “Yup, we’re clear,” I say. “Let’s go for it.”

And so I spend the next ten minutes feeding a deliriously happy cat a combination of wet cat food and hallway dust bunnies. The dust bunnies are an unintentional side effect of eating off the hardwood floors. My cleaning needs some work.

But I’m not going to dust my floors just for a cat.

I have to take a stand somewhere.

-7-

Incoming!

The cat has discovered a love of pasta. She prefers Mueller’s
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pasta shells, uncooked, of the medium-sized variety.

I inadvertently began her love affair with pasta by reaching into the kitchen cabinet for some soup. My elbow bumped an open box and dry pasta shells went scattering and bouncing across the tile floor.

I started, the cat jumped, and then we looked across the room at one another. Our eyes narrowed to slits. We both knew exactly what the other wanted. Without a word we went racing in opposite directions—me for the broom, the cat directly for the pile of shells.

It was no contest. By the time I arrived with the broom, she was in the middle of what appeared to be a free-for-all hockey shoot-out where, instead of a black puck, the cat was lobbing Mueller’s
^®
shells. She went down the line like a professional, nailing shot after shot.

ZAP! There went one into the dining room.

ZING! There went one under the stove (Add it to the list of things she’s batted under there never to be retrieved).

POW! She was bouncing them off the fridge. She turned towards me, armed and ready, and I knew I must regain control.

“Hold it!” I command. “These are not toys! This is food your father and I require for our daily survival.” I dangle one of her pom-pom balls in front of me. “Here, sweetie. Do you want to play with this?”

BAM! The cat wings a shell past my left ear.

That’s it. No more Mrs. Nice Guy. I scoop up a yowling cat and deposit her in the bathroom, door closed. I go back and sweep up all the pasta now scattered throughout the house that I can find. It’s really hard to reach the ones that went all the way under the couch.

Once finished, I let a very miffed cat out of her cell. She sniffs the floor where the pasta had been and turns toward me. I watch her consider her options. She decides to play the cuteness card.

Perfectly round eyes of innocence follow my every move. I was just having fun. Is that so wrong? After all, I never even get to leave the house.

I cross my arms over my chest. Seeing I am not to be moved, she heaves a theatrical sigh, drops her tail, and meanders away.

Later that afternoon, I start giggling. She did look pretty cute, happily whapping the beejeezus out of those shells.

I could have saved a heck of a lot of money, not to mention floor space, on cat toys if I’d known earlier the entertainment value of a fresh pasta shell.

My husband arrives home a couple of hours later.

“What’s that racket?” he asks. Indeed, there are suspicious sounds coming from behind the closed kitchen door.

“That’s just the cat,” I say. “She’s playing.”

“With what, firecrackers?” he asks.

“Um, I’m not sure. Listen, are you hungry? I was thinking we could eat out tonight.”

He doesn’t look excited. “But it’s Tuesday. Pasta night.”

I smile and listen to the ruckus in the kitchen as the cat gets off another hip shot. No pasta tonight.

I’m pretty sure we’re out.

-8-

The Great Cat Butt Wiping Adventure

The cat smelled bad.

She no longer had the sweet, soft, fresh smell of wellgroomed kitty fur. Now she smelled like ammonia. Or, in layman’s terms, pee.

I mention the aroma to my husband.

“Are you cleaning the litter box?” I ask him. “Daily?”

“Why am I always the one who gets blamed?” he asks.

“Why am I responsible for the cat smelling like pee?”

“Maybe she’s sick,” I say, cutting him off. “Let’s keep an eye on her.”

Worried, I hop on the Internet to do some research.

Opening Google™, I enter my query: CATS SMELL URINE.

Five million sites on how to remove the smell of cat urine from carpets, furniture, suitcases, and clothing fill the screen.

I try again.

CATS SMELL FUR AMMONIA

CATS STINK URINE DISEASE

CATS SMELLY PEE DISEASE

Nothing, although I now know fifty different ways to remove urine stains from cashmere. I give it one last try.

CATS ICKY YUCK SMELL PROBABLY CAUSED BY HUSBANDS

NON-SANITARY METHODS FOR FECES AND URINE

CLUMP DISPOSAL

Bingo. A site for Feline Lower Urinary Tract Disease (FLUTD) appears. FLUTD, I read, takes on many different forms and stages. The most serious is when tiny crystals appear in a cat’s urine. Death is possible.

I race downstairs where my husband is watching TV.

“Have you seen any signs of crystals?” I shriek.

“Huh?” he says.

“Fluted! Fatal cat disease! Crystals in the urine! Have you seen any?”

I race back upstairs, not giving him a chance to answer.

The website indicates cats with urinary tract infections need to drink a lot of water, adding that with their inquisitive nature, cats are more likely to drink out of bowls placed in odd spots around the home. They also say some cats enjoy drinking from running water.

The next afternoon my husband approaches me.

“Why is my shower running?” he asks.

“In case the cat gets thirsty,” I reply. “Can you move?

You’re blocking the TV.”

Later that night he appears again, clenching a dripping sock in one hand.

“Did you know there’s a pan full of water at the top of the stairs?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “There are also bowls of water under the dining room table, in the laundry room, on top of the dresser in the guest bedroom, and under the bathroom sink.”

“Why don’t you just take her to the vet?” he begs.

I take her the next day. Returning home, I release the cat and stand in front of my husband.

“Well?”

“It’s not good,” I begin.

He puts a hand to his heart. “Oh my God. You mean she’s…she’s…”

“Oh, no, the cat’s fine,” I say, waving away his concern.

“We’re the ones in trouble.” I pause, wondering how to relay the information I possess. I decide to just shoot it out there.

“We have to wipe her butt. Daily.”

He blinks. Opens his mouth. Thinks better of it. Opens it again.

“Why?” finally comes out.

“Because,” I sigh. “She’s too fat and her skin is folding over and trapping pieces of…you know…in the area of her—“

“Lalalalalalalalala,” says my husband, sticking fingers in both ears.“I can’t hear you. Lalalalalalalala…”

I give him “the look.”

He removes his fingers. “Look here,” he says. “You said cats were easy.” He points an accusatory finger at me.

“In fact, you promised that all we had to do was feed and water and occasionally pet them. And NOW,” he raises his voice as I make to interrupt,“you’re telling me we have to catch and hold down a creature—with claws—so we can wash poo from between the fatty folds of her butt?!”

 “Um, actually,” I say with a meek smile, “you have to wipe her butt. Poo makes me sick.”

After several rounds of negotiations and the threat of divorce, I agree to at least hold the cat while he wipes.

I lull the cat into a false sense of security by combing her for twenty minutes. When she is relaxed and purring, I motion for my husband, hiding low at the top of the stairs with a wet towel, to approach.

“Is the towel the right temperature?” I whisper.

“Not too hot and not too cold?”

He glares at me.

“Right,” I say. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

Gingerly, as if afraid she was wired with explosives, he lifts the cat’s tail. Her ears perk and she twists her head to look at him.

“Easy now,” he says, wiping.

“Mrow?” queries the cat.

“I think she likes it,” I encourage.

“That thought terrifies me,” says my husband, prying open folds of fat to clean between them.

“Rrrrrrrrr.” The sound coming from her was half growl, half purr.

“Hurry up,” I urge.

“Do you want this end of the job?” he asks. “Because I’m willing to trade.”

We finish cleaning and my husband attempts to hand me the brown-stained cloth.

I make gagging noises and wave him away. “I can’t even look at that.”

“Well, what should I do with it?”

“Washing machine.”

“Ewwww. I’m not putting kitty poo in the washing machine.”

I look at him. “Please remind me to never bear you children,” I say.

It got worse. I made the mistake of telling my mom about the butt-wiping. She was full of non-helpful suggestions.

“Maybe you need a bigger litter box. Maybe she just can’t…you know…maneuver properly.”

“The litter box is fine, Mom. The cat is just too fat.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of such a thing. Everyone knows cats clean themselves.”

“Mom, the vet said –“

“The vet! What does he know? What makes him such an expert?”

“Twelve years of schooling?” I reply.

I’ve stopped telling people we have to wipe the cat’s butt. My friends with kids laugh at me. My friends without pets think I’m nuts. My friends with pets, especially cat owners, say nothing but look infuriatingly smug that they don’t have to do the same.

So it’s just me, the cat, and my husband bearing out our dirty little secret. It’s almost become routine. Now every Monday, along with taking out the trash and watering the plants, we have the added chore of washing a weeks worth of kitty poo towels.

Yes, it’s gross.

But at least the cat smells better.