A few months ago, I thought it would be a good idea to get a cat. I imagined snacking, watching TV, and napping with my new friend. Perhaps it could learn to use the toilet. Cats are very smart, you know.
Plus, in event of famine, cats are said to be tender and succulent.
Before long, Jean spotted a cat adoption at a pet store, and I quickly turned into the parking lot.
Inside the shop, five cats were stacked in cages. But only one special kitten reached through the bars.
“Jean, this is the perfect cat for us,” I declared. “I guess,” she replied. She was already shopping for cat accessories.
The zealous cat adoption ladies helped me fill out our paperwork. They asked me a series of personal questions while Jean was filling her cart.
“Have you ever owned a cat before?” the lady asked.
“Well, yeah, I did have a cat once for four days, but I returned him in like-new condition. We failed to bond on account of his messy habits.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” chided the cat lady. She marked something down on her clipboard, but I couldn’t read it. “You have to understand that having a cat is a commitment.”
Just then, Jean walked up with a cart full of expensive cat products. The cat lady smiled as Jean demonstrated the investment she was willing to make.
“Well,” the cat lady sighed, “I guess you folks are approved.”
“Did you hold it yet?” asked Jean.
“It’s a ‘him,’ not an ‘it,’” scolded the cat lady.
“I’m not ready for that,” I said.
But then I got to hold him the entire way home. He scratched his way out of my grip three times. He grew less cute by the mile.
At home, he was traumatized. So was I.
Bonding would have to wait—we had a wedding to go to that evening. While we were at the ceremony, the cat messed on the carpet.
Over time, the cat displayed a wide range of behavioral problems. Primarily, the so-called “playful” little kitten never missed an opportunity to bite.
He would attack while I watched TV, and he was especially vicious if I fell asleep on the couch. And if I woke up to get a drink at night, I would return to bed with a nasty bite to the ankle.
Nevertheless, sweet Jean gave him hugs and kisses. The cat bit her arms, her cheeks, and her neck.
Not one for pain, I wore oven mitts and boots to protect myself from his “playfulness.”
Eventually, I became so paranoid of the kitten that I searched the Internet for padded dog-training suits at work. The guys in the office thought I was getting a German shepherd or some such animal, which they thought was cool. Eventually, they found out the truth and hurt my feelings.
After a few months, it was time for the cat to get neutered. I was more than a little thrilled—it would be a day of vengeance. After all, how better to get even with the little monster than to cut off his--
The next day, Jean drove the cat to the vet. How she got him in the carrier, I will never know. (She still won’t talk about it, and the carpet is still stained.)
In the absence of the cat, life was good in the apartment. I lay on the floor and watched TV. No biting. No clawing. And the marks on Jean’s cheek, arms, and neck began to heal.
Then I had to pick him up.
The vet seemed to dislike me right away. Each member of the veterinary staff explained how the cat attacked them. In light of all this scratching and biting, I would have expected a better greeting for the guy who would take the little monster home. Oh well.
A nervous assistant brought the cat into the examination room. I held the carrier close to my body, keeping my distance.
“He has some issues with aggression,” the assistant explained.
“Yes, I know, but we love him just the same.” I felt compelled to lie in the presence of this animal lover. “Could you put him in the crate? I’m not really comfortable touching him.”
“Are you allergic?”
“No, he bites.” Gingerly, the assistant stuffed the cat into the crate. I waited for Jean to get home to let him out.
Apparently, the veterinary visit—and the procedure—enraged the precious little lamb, which escalated the violence. He bit, scratched, and pounced. Even Jean wondered if we shouldn’t get rid of him.
“I feel responsible for him--I just can’t take him to the humane society,” she sobbed.
“I’ll do it, if that’s the only problem.”
Jean glared for a moment. “Don’t you dare!”
