My Asshole Cat. Part 4 - The Surrender

Kneading on You. You may think this is a sign of affection, but your cat is actually checking your internal organs for weaknesses.

~from How to Tell if Your Cat is Plotting to Kill You

Yesterday, I carted up Mac and we headed to town for our vet appointment. I dropped Lys at the high school and made my way across town to collect my drive-thru breakfast before making a quick stop at the office. Within a few minutes of dropping Miss Alyssa, I was assaulted by a stench that – literally – brought tears to my eyes. I lowered the windows and tried to calm Mac but her nerves clearly had gotten the best of her. I stopped at the office for some paper towels and some cleaner and decided to make an early appearance at the vet clinic.

Dr. Greg hadn’t arrived yet so I begged the vet tech to borrow an exam room and clean up Mac before her debut appointment. Once in the room I forced open the windows and released Hell herself from the carrier. She left her prison like a shot and was soon a drenched, smelly mess on the other side of the exam room. I decided to let her gather herself so I took the opportunity to clean up the carrier. There are no words that can adequately convey to you the breath-robbing, eye-stabbing stink of that cat. I dabbed and rubbed at her wet fur without any measure of success.  It really seemed like nothing more than busywork.

As Dr.Greg entered the room, his first words were “Wow, smells like a tom cat in here.” I quickly apologized and explained that she messed herself in the carrier on the way over. He placed Mac on the exam table and after the briefest palpation exclaimed – “…because it IS a tom cat.”

Congratulations, it’s a boy!

I burst out laughing. “Boy, do I feel stupid!” He assured me that I shouldn’t feel bad…it would be far worse, he explained, if THEY got it wrong.

(You should understand that this man knows that we have not actively pursued “pet owner status.” We do not go to pet stores, choose our pets, build our intelligence about their breed and behaviour and then dote upon them with our vast knowledge and skill. We are…instead…a small family of bleeding hearts that cannot turn their backs on a stray animal in peril and so we commit to their care in the absence of a loving owner. We are pet owners by circumstance.)

He excused himself from the room to gather the vaccinations. I could hear him tell his tech to correct Mac’s chart to show a male cat…”the she is actually a HE,” he said. I smiled and turned to Mac… "You tricky little bastard,” I whispered. I took those brief seconds to reflect on Mac’s behaviours and things began to fall into place. Wait until I tell the kids, I thought..

The rest of the appointment went very well (obnoxious odour notwithstanding) and Mac was treated for every possible parasite and disease before returning – with much help from Dr. Greg – to the carrier for our return trip home. I paid for the appointment and booked Mac’s neutering for next Thursday. The tech and I laughed about the Mac’s sexual confusion and I told her it was going to take some getting used to – I refer to the cats as “the girls” so I’m going to need some retraining. I suggested that in all likelihood, Mac would return to its rightful owner AFTER I vaccinate and neuter him and the tech reassured me that “at least” neutering was less expensive than spaying to which I thought…OK…silver lining. (I clung desperately to that little thread of positivity as I tried to bathe the stink off that tom cat later in the evening.)

So there you have it.

I confess to being an inadequate pet owner – so much so that I failed to correctly identify the sex of my cat. I confess also to surrendering to this irksome little beast. While I will continue to fondly refer to “my asshole cat,” I have to admit that he has grown on me. If I’m being honest, I kind of prefer “spunky” behaviour – predictable can sometimes be boring – and this little jerk kind of fits with our familial band of misfits anyhow.

Love him or hate him…Mac’s vet record clearly shows that we are now, officially, his family.

My Asshole Cat. Part 3 - Staging the Coup

I had been told that the training procedure with cats was difficult. It's not. Mine had me trained in two days.

~Bill Dana

It has been several weeks now since outdoor cat made her appearance and there is no sign of her leaving despite all of our encouragement. It’s clear she wants to stay. So, she has plotted her takeover.

I recognize and easily admit that I am the weak link. She has broken me down using clever sleep deprivation techniques. She has walked across my remote control in the middle of the night waking me to the fevered pitch of late night info-mercials. She has stepped on my snooze button releasing country music into my otherwise silent night. With my defenses down, she manipulated me with cuddling and soft, soothing purring, focusing her feline attentions on me until I submitted to the Stockholm Syndrome that has defined our relationship.

Our household rhythm has slowly changed to follow the beat of our little outdoor drummer. Wake-up call is precisely 5:45 am each and every day without fail. Outdoor cat jumps to the bedside table where she quickly bats any loose objects onto the floor before short-jumping her way to the bed. Once there, she begins with a “brrrip brrrrip” to signal her presence (in case I missed the remote control hitting the floor) and then takes position on the side of my pillow that I am currently facing. As is our usual routine, I roll over and she begins noisily cleaning herself until I throw back the covers in surrender.

We traipse down the stairs together as she commences the morning workout with agility exercises, zigzagging her way down the stairs in front of me. Once downstairs, I prepare the coffee maker and my servitude begins. The cats are fed twice daily – once when I wake (which outdoor cat orchestrates) and once when I return from work (though it took a while for outdoor cat to understand that this does not mean every time I come in the door from outside). Once the cats are fed, I turn my attention to the hated litter box which is scooped twice daily and thoroughly scrubbed once a week. While I may be able to tolerate cats, I absolutely hate the smell of a dirty litter box. I have designed a concept for the outdoor kitty litter box which I will experiment with once the warmer weather arrives.

This winter has brought with it some very hostile weather which meant that “Outdoor Cat” has become a bit of a misnomer. I suppose we could rename her “Fairweather Outdoor Cat” or simplify that with the slightly more fitting acronym FOC, but I’ve always thought pet names should be “call worthy.” You know, you stand at your door and call out the name of your pet – here Skippy, here Buster, here "insert name here" -- so it must be inoffensive, short, catchy and identifiable at high volume. “My Asshole Cat” is not call-worthy, but I’m thinking MAC may be a fit for this little furry jerk. Move it Mac! Hey Mac, what’s the problem? Yup...Mac is the winner.

Mac heads to the vet this Friday for a full work-up. I’ve been avoiding this appointment but it’s clear that this cat is officially ours so, we’ll concede that she staged a successful coup. The vet appointment, I can re- frame for my own purposes as a calculated maneuver recommended by General Sun Tzu…”know thy enemy.”

My Asshole Cat. Part 2 - Into The Breach

"Staring Contests: If you get caught in a staring contest with your cat, do not look away. Looking away will signal to your cat that you are weak, and an attack is likely to follow. "

~from "How to tell if your cat is plotting to kill you.

Outdoor cat spent her first night indoors one rainy night last summer. Outdoor cat brought her fleabag self into our home and immediately began her skulking. She wandered around eyeing up the place like a dieter in a bakeshop. Lys eventually bundled her up and took outdoor kitty to her room to retire for the evening. We all took to our beds and turned out the lights. Moments after arriving at the coveted REM sleep, the night was perforated by the wailing banshee. It was a God-awful, unnatural shriek that was at once irritating and terrifying.

It took me a few seconds to get my bearings and locate the source of the hullabaloo. I turned on the light and there she was, in the middle of the kitchen, just looking around wailing. A cat person might say she was mewling or meowing but I am not a cat person; I am a person fixated on achieving 4-6 hours of REM sleep a night. This was going to be a problem. She was not in distress, she was not in heat, she was neither hungry nor thirsty. It was the equivalent, I felt, to waking up in the middle of the night to find someone singing at the top of their lungs in the middle of your kitchen and, as you turn on the light, they turn in your direction and smile as they begin the second chorus. I stared slack-jawed in stunned disbelief.

I opened the door sure that outdoor kitty was in need of some fresh air figuring this vocal exercise was her jailhouse rock. She ended with a big finish and came to stand beside me in front of the open door. She looked up at me, looked out the door, then looked back at me as if to say, "where you headed at this hour?" I closed the door and returned to bed. turned out the light and resumed my pursuit of restful sleep.

At precisely 5:45 am, outdoor cat jumped on my head. I burrowed beneath my comforter and pillow but she persisted with a leggy tap dance on my kidneys. She followed with some "brrrip, brrip" chatter that immediately made me think of the movie "Gremlins" and I made a mental note to keep her away from water. Her tireless efforts finally paid off as I threw back my covers and returned to the kitchen. I filled up the empty dishes and then made my way, blurry eyed, back to bed.

I must have dozed off, because it seemed like only seconds had passed before outdoor cat jumped onto my chest for an early-morning staring contest. I lost. Then I lost it. I picked up outdoor cat and encouraged her outside for some early morning sun -- and by encouraged, I mean I opened the door and threw her outside onto the deck.

I returned to the warmth of my bed and curled beneath the blankets and rested my eyes. Unable to fall back asleep and resigned to the lost opportunity for a leisurely sleep-in, I cracked open my eyes....to see her....staring at me from the window. I dragged my butt out of the bed and turned to see her walk away, satisfied that I was finally out of bed. My brand new alarm clock. My new asshole cat.

My Asshole Cat. Part 1 - The Infiltration

When my cats aren't happy, I'm not happy. Not because I care about their mood but because I know they're just sitting there thinking up ways to get even.

~Percy Bysshe Shelley

Our family has a long history of taking in stray animals so when I saw a small, skinny kitten hanging around the cottage this summer, I got a sinking feeling. We had, just one short year ago, taken in an unwanted farm cat (whose bleak future included population control) after repeated pleas from my daughter. Enter Meeko. Lys's love affair with Meeko lasted about seven months. Meeko is now my cat. She is the cat I never wanted. So, as you can appreciate, this newest arrival was not met with my warm welcome.

The kids and I agreed that we would not name the cat or feed the cat but that instead we would look long and hard for this stray cat's family. We called the local vet, inquired at the nearby campground, enlisted support at the local corner store and twitted, tumble'd and facebook'd news of this lost (or was it found) cat. We were told by the vet that cat owners (read bad cat owners)were known to DUMP their unwanted pets in the country to let them live or die on their own. This, he said, was a common occurrence. My hopes of finding kitty's family were suddenly dashed. What's worse, I was conflicted now with feelings of compassion for this animal -- compassion that wasn't there seconds before when I simply thought it was misplaced.

The night that "outdoor kitty" showed up was a fitful one. I lay in bed and wrestled with figures as I adjusted our monthly budget to allow for vet bills, flea treatments, cat food, litter, and a contingency fund for cat emergencies. I eventually fell asleep with the hope that I would wake and kitty would have returned to her rightful place. It was not to be. During the night, the kids had prepared a cardboard box, lined it with a towel and placed it in a sheltered spot on the deck for maximum comfort. I discovered this "kitty cat comfort inn" when I took my coffee on the deck that morning. Imagine my surprise. This initiative from two teenagers who need to be reminded to put their dirty clothes in the hamper. I felt the odds beginning to stack against me.

On day two of the infiltration, "outdoor kitty" slept in the sun on a quiet corner of the deck as my kids questioned the depth of my humanity. How could I leave it there without feeding it or giving it water?   Did I have to point out that there is a lake less than 10 metres from where the cat lay languishing? Now I am suddenly the patron saint of stray cats? The Highland's version of St. Gertrude. Why not?  After all, what single woman doesn't want to run the risk of becoming known as "the cat lady?" Spectacular!

On day three, I was forced to acknowledge that this cat was going nowhere. It had not, to my knowledge, breached our points of entry but it was working on the kids' defenses...OK, our defenses. Meeko offered her own brand of uninviting feedback through several exchanges mediated by the patio door though the kids were far more easily swayed. I have to take ownership of some of the blame though...I am a sucker for "cute." Besides, I kept replaying this vision of "outdoor kitty" being thrown from the window of a car by a hellish cat owner as he drove away with a maniacal laugh. He didn't even take the care to stop the car. (Well, that's how it played out in my head anyway.)

Needless to say, we all bought into the cute kitty act and you know what followed. It began with a bowl of milk, then a few scraps of cat food, then we were petting kitty on our laps and discussing the logistics of an outdoor cat. Days passed.

Then it happened. It rained. Not just a light shower, but a wicked rainfall complete with thunder and lightning. We opened the door and "outdoor kitty" ran inside.

Little did we know that we had been infiltrated by an asshole cat.