“I can’t do this with her watching,” I say.
“Ignore her,” says my husband, nuzzling my neck.
I accept his caresses, but keep looking back at the cat.
She has plopped down on the carpet and is staring rapt at us, as if engrossed in a good movie. All she needs is a bowl of popcorn.
My husband senses my tension and stops. The cat looks from one of us to the other, eyes wide and innocent. Don’t mind me, her look implies, I’m not even here.
We leave the cat and move into the bedroom. Kiss, kiss, kiss. An article or two of clothing hits the floor. Then we feel a plop at the foot of the bed. We look down and the cat is sitting on the corner of the mattress, staring at us.
“Nope,” I say, getting up. “It’s like performing in front of a camera. Can’t do it.”
My husband glares daggers at the cat, who, now that the show is over, starts to give herself a bath.
It’s only recently the cat has decided to stalk us during foreplay. Her prior reaction was more like that of a child who catches their parents having sex. They do everything short of setting themselves on fire to erase the image from their mind.
Before, if the cat would see us kissing she would give a little start, as if we’d scared her. Then she would make a face and run off down the hall.
Eww, yuck. Stop it! That is sooo gross. Why would you want to do that?
Now I feel like we’re the parents of a three-year-old, trying to find a moment when the child is distracted to sneak off and have sex.
“Psst. The cat’s asleep on the window seat. Let’s go.”
So it lacks a little in the romance department. It gets the job done.
I think the cat wouldn’t be so fascinated (or disgusted) by our open displays of affection if she weren’t so standoffish herself. Getting her to agree to be petted is akin to entering into a trade agreement with a foreign country—57 lots of conditions and clauses, and you’re never sure if they’re going to back out at the last minute.
To pet our cat, one must not have come into contact with any other animal in the past 48 hours. One must have warm hands, fresh breath, move slowly with no sudden movements, scratch diligently under her chin and behind her ears, and never under any circumstances touch her tail or paws. If any of these conditions are breeched, it can be taken as an all out declaration of war.
But perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe she is there to help, watching us with only the best intentions of offering advice.
Perhaps her look of furrowed concentration comes from trying to send mental messages of encouragement to my husband.
Hey, scratch her behind the ear. We chicks love that.
Now rub her tummy. And sort of pouf her hair up, and then pat it back down. That’s sure to get her motor going.
The obvious solution would be to continue romantic activities behind closed doors. But many of the doors in our old home don’t latch completely and, when fifteen pounds of kitty weight are thrown against them, they swing wide open.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
So we’ll continue with the clandestine sex. Actually, it makes for a rousing change of pace. We feel a little naughty sneaking off behind the cat’s back to do the wild thing.
And I must admit it’s a whole lot more enticing than it was seeing the look of disgust on the cat’s face when we so much as kissed.
Besides, it’s not like nothing good has come from the cat watching us. Her presence has been inspiring, even.
I’m quite enjoying those tummy rubs.
-10-
Kitty Jihad
I am scared for my life. Our three-year-old black and white female cat has declared Kitty Jihad on my husband and me. I’m unsure as to what provoked this kitty holy war, but my guess is it all started when the veterinarian had us reduce the amount of food we were feeding the cat. During the cat’s last check-up, the vet had discreetly slipped me a brochure on caring for obese cats. I knew the cat’s tummy had grown a bit, but obese? Ridiculous!
I showed my husband the brochure, hoping he would feel the same injured sense of outrage for our poor cat that I did. Instead, he started referring to her as “Tubby.” If the cat was eating when he walked by he called out “Hey, Tubby, drop the nibbles and give me a lap!” He would then laugh roundly at this so-called humor. Neither the cat nor I was amused. I spoke with my husband about his insensitivity.
“She’s not fat,” I said. “The vet said she only needs to lose three pounds.”
“Well, she weighs fifteen pounds. Three pounds is therefore approximately twenty percent of her body weight,” he said smugly. “That’s a lot.” He turned to face the cat. “Isn’t that right, Tubby?”
The cat made it clear she was not pleased with the new food rationing. I’m not making accusations, but let’s just say I started finding kitty litter in a whole new variety of places around the house. But we stuck to our guns.
I laugh now at our naivety. I’d heard jokes about the sadistic and unforgiving nature of cats, but it wasn’t until I became a cat owner with a ticked off cat that I was able to grasp the full sadistic implications of a feline’s malice.
Simply put, our cat has declared a holy war against us.
The Kitty Jihad focuses on sleep deprivation. Our cat, who must have studied at some institute of higher learning before we rescued her off the streets, has taken to intentionally interrupting our REM cycles during sleep. The REM (rapid eye movement) cycle is what is needed for deep sleep to occur. Without it, people become irritable, unfocused, and experience loss of memory and concentration.
It begins late at night, after we fall asleep. The cat leaps onto our bed, and stares at us, waiting for the jittery movement of the eyeball behind the closed lid, indicating deep sleep is now occurring. Then, and only then, does she hop to the floor, and position herself in the doorway between our bedroom and the hall. This is just beyond the distance, coincidentally, that either my husband or myself can throw a shoe or pillow with any accuracy.
Once positioned, the cat does some gargling and deep breathing exercises to prepare for what is to come. She inhales deeply into the depths of her lungs, and expels upward and outward a powerful burst of air that reverberates in the silence of the darkened house into one long, loud “MEEE-OOOW!!”
Once she sees my husband and I bolt upright in the bed, clutching frantically at the sheets, each other, and our pillows, she really lets rip. “Meow, rowr, rowr, MOWW, meeoooow.”
Then she’s silent. We hold our breath and wait.
More silence. The worst appears to be over. We allow ourselves to fall back into our pillows.
“MROWRRRRR!!!!” screeches the cat at the top of her lungs.
“What the…?!?” my husband says, wrenching upright again.
“It’s the cat,” I say, punching the pillow and rolling over.
“Oh,” he says. “I thought maybe you were being murdered by an intruder.”
“No, but thanks for your concern,” I mutter. “You almost made it fully out of the bed.”
During this exchange, the cat has paced into the hallway.
A twenty-minute silence allows us to return to sleep.
The cat again takes up position. Now she adopts a more lyrical, questioning tone of voice. “Mrow? Rorw? Meow, meow.” Long pause. “Mrow?”
It’s impossible to sleep through it.
I nudge my husband. “Honey, do you love me?” I ask.
“Mmm-um” he replies.
“Rowrrr? Mrreow?” says the cat.
I nudge him again. “If you really loved me you’d get up and do something about the cat.”
He snorts air and pulls the covers tighter. “Uh-um.