Cat Love vs. Water Pistol Surprise

Now this cat, this neutered male, came to me aloof, reserved, owning a deliberate take-it-or-leave-it ennui regarding human or other cat interaction.  No hissing or escape, not a sneer nor a purr.  He showed up in the kitchen for breakfast and dinner; his otherwise address was high atop my china cabinet amongst the bookshelves.  Large, grey and white, this is the cat who would violently react when taken to the vet.  He drew blood on three humans and resisted the heaping helping of tranquilizer until the return home, saving the upheaval of stomach contents (a sign that the tranq is taking effect) for the rug, eight o'clock at night.

I had gotten him as a balance to the four girl cats, having recently lost the oldest male, dear Martian, earlier that spring.  One of the attractions to him was that he let me walk up to him at the vets where he temporarily resided; another tally in favor was his coloration.  The grey cats I previously lived with were exceptional in wisdom, affection, and education, and this flimsy thinking afforded an opening of a cat carrier, to plop him back home with us.  "He's the most mellow cat," intoned the younger vet assistant, "he just doesn't like to be picked up, but that should go away."  Ho ho, says I.

It's true, loud, sudden noises don't bother him even though his hearing is on level.  He sleeps most of the day, in his largeness, and vacuuming causes little more than a half of a mild hurray.  This went on for the first year, yet I could see that my ministrations were becoming looked-for: a daub of whipped cream from the spray can in the morn, pillow-shaped treats in the afternoon, and catnip, catnip, catnip.  He began to show relaxation when the side of his neck was scratched, the tiniest of inaudible purrs felt in his throat.  The first time I brushed him, I was ready to drop, roll and run at the first sign of fang, but this exercise on his head extended down his back, gingerly, and the look on his face was simply a what the hell is she doing but god's nightgown, I am loving it expression.  I am now able to call him by running fingers over the bristles of the brush, and thus remove wads of underfur before it becomes dust bunnieville.

He has become the first cat to run to me when I enter the door, and will playfully try to catch my legs if he is in a happy mood.  I am pleased to see him comfortable, but what has happened is a lowering of defenses and a raising of a grain I haven't seen well, ever.  I would hear him call and chatter pleasantly in the night, I love to hear cats talk; my fifteen year old cat Min makes sounds similar to a Pavarotti yodel when she runs the hallway.  Recently, as in the past two months, the grey cat has the full heart of a man with a grilled cheese sandwich and a cold beer; this emotional anthem spills out in chirps and hey baby let's have a date singsong, usually directed to the girl cats who will give him a beat down.  Tulip, Snowbelle, and Min suggest worlds of hurt if he even looks their way, Kai on the other hand, is a gentle thing who often needs rescue from this clumsy nonsense, yet will let him have a one-ski two-ski if pushed.  Now, close your children's ears, cause here comes the water pistol part.

The cat had lifted himself forward in bonding with the human can opener by curling up at a far corner of the bed, sleeping deeply in innocence and recovery from a hard life.  I was flattered, oh look, he really likes me after all gushery welled up in my ventricles.  Around when the spring brought back the robins, raised crocus from dormancy, and caused squirrels to chase each other up tree trunks, the cat has now found an object of affection that won't fight back.  My blankets.  He grabs a chunk in his mouth and pulls backwards while mrowing concertos of smoove grooves.  This is lunacy, but bearable, and he goes away after maybe five minutes of the blanket not falling back in love with him.  I am stronger than this cat, and thus the blanket stays with me and doesn't end up in a heap puking into the toilet the next day after too much booze, neon, and loose morals.

Lights out one evening, and I felt something unusual going on, which became an unholy What the hell are you doing to my leg?  Shoving became a battle, apparently he likes a leg that plays hard to get and is a total lunkhead to the word NO.  I dug out a water pistol, gave my leg a lecture on making good choices in life, and have let him have a blast of cold, wet justice.  Now, this is the cat that likes to stick his head under a running faucet for a drink, but water anywhere else is defilement and shocking.  Thank heavens, for he is now receptive to the idea of self-government, that there is no annexing other cats or human body parts without retaliation including a possible acceleration of warfare, complete with home decorating magazines whipped with unerring accuracy.

So think of us when you turn out the lights with whatever family you may have, near or far.  Really, the cat goes away in a hurry after a shot from the seahorse squirt gun, to rearrange coat and dignity, and it will subside, things never, never stay the same.  What else is it, but life.

There is a light rain, nothing to get going about, but any precipitation is welcome during this unusually dry summer.   Nothing like listening to rain on a roof, something I haven't heard in years, but then again, things never do stay the same, and there will be a roof again, I can feel it.  Goodnight my cats, goodnight robins, crocus returned to dormancy, squirrels raising families and gathering.  Goodnight good people, sleep safe without worry, find dreams to cling to.  Sleep.