Catfight
At my new housesit I was very optimistic. The dogs were great, the chickens were clucky and the bird was chirpy. And then there was Larry. When I asked how many times I should feed Larry (who is a cat) the owner replied, "Oh just keep both bowls full with cat biscuits everyday." I must have looked taken aback because she quickly added, "He doesn't overeat." Then I saw Larry. It would have been more appropriate to name him something more befitting his appearance (like Orlando) because he was the high-bred, sharp intellect type - the type of cat which prefers red caviar to black. He was ludicrously beautiful and he knew it. True, most of Larry was a voluptous fur coat that could probably insulate against the harshest of Arctic winters but he was definitely round-shaped underneath it all. But a fat cat is the happiest cat. The sort of cat that takes ecstatic pleasure in knowing that their stomach is full and a coat so glossy and thick it could make a baby fur seal envious. The owner had one more thing to tell me. "Larry only likes to drink running water so when he meows you have to switch on the tap for him a little bit." Right. Gotcha. Larry looked at me with a smug, knowing look. Larry, I thought at the time, was going to be rather lovable.
And he was. I came down with the flu shortly after the owners departed and Larry faithfully curled up near me in bed, unperturbed and undisturbed by my snorting and moaning as I quickly turned into a grumpy, pale, snot machine. Then, one day he meowed and led me to his water container. I had never seen him actually drink out of it so I hadn't bothered to refresh the contents. There was a sodden cat biscuit at the bottom and he meowed again then pawed at it as if to say (in a European accent) "Look at this - its disgusting, how am I supposed to drink this?" I looked at him condescendingly (Mistake no 1.) "Larry, I am not changing your water when you don't even drink out of that thing." Larry continued to meow in a commanding tone and paw at the biscuit. When he realised I wasn't getting the message he then promptly squatted in front of the container - and defecated. "Larry!" I yelled in shocked surprise. I was outraged further as he let rip with a fart. Once he was done he walked away with an obnoxiously waving tail. I yelled at him again. He looked shocked. I looked incandescent with anger. He decided to run and jump onto the window ledge to escape further reprisals. I pulled the curtain back and tried to push him out. He swiped at me with his paw. I swiped back. He swiped at me again. I realised then that I was having a catfight with an actual cat. Before it got more absurd Larry escaped out the window and I went to clean up the mess.
After cleaning up the mess I went to take a nap. Soon, I felt him try to snuggle up to my feet. I jerked them away. A minute later, he tried again. I pulled away again. He tried one more time and I curl up on the edge of the bed to get away from him. He can't schmooze his way back into my good books this easily I tell myself. No matter how cute he is.
That evening I came home and closed the laundry door, thus sealing off his 24/7 access to his cat biscuits. Then I settle on the couch and begin to watch the news. It isn't long before I hear a carefully enunciated "Meow!" from the hallway. I turn my head and he is sitting there, eyeballing me with a look that says, "I know what you're doing and I DON'T LIKE IT." I turn back to the TV nonchalantly. I'm going to play it cool. Let's see how long it takes for this fluffy diva to freak out. The minutes pass. I look at him occasionally and say in between mouthfuls of chicken enchilada, "What's up Larry? You look a bit hungry there." After about fifteen minutes his self-assured gaze is starting to falter. He looks at the laundry and looks at me. After half an hour I feel appeased and get off the couch. He cautiously rubs against my leg and looks at me anxiously.
I open the laundry door and he goes to his food bowl with an apologetic meow.
Apology accepted.
And he was. I came down with the flu shortly after the owners departed and Larry faithfully curled up near me in bed, unperturbed and undisturbed by my snorting and moaning as I quickly turned into a grumpy, pale, snot machine. Then, one day he meowed and led me to his water container. I had never seen him actually drink out of it so I hadn't bothered to refresh the contents. There was a sodden cat biscuit at the bottom and he meowed again then pawed at it as if to say (in a European accent) "Look at this - its disgusting, how am I supposed to drink this?" I looked at him condescendingly (Mistake no 1.) "Larry, I am not changing your water when you don't even drink out of that thing." Larry continued to meow in a commanding tone and paw at the biscuit. When he realised I wasn't getting the message he then promptly squatted in front of the container - and defecated. "Larry!" I yelled in shocked surprise. I was outraged further as he let rip with a fart. Once he was done he walked away with an obnoxiously waving tail. I yelled at him again. He looked shocked. I looked incandescent with anger. He decided to run and jump onto the window ledge to escape further reprisals. I pulled the curtain back and tried to push him out. He swiped at me with his paw. I swiped back. He swiped at me again. I realised then that I was having a catfight with an actual cat. Before it got more absurd Larry escaped out the window and I went to clean up the mess.
After cleaning up the mess I went to take a nap. Soon, I felt him try to snuggle up to my feet. I jerked them away. A minute later, he tried again. I pulled away again. He tried one more time and I curl up on the edge of the bed to get away from him. He can't schmooze his way back into my good books this easily I tell myself. No matter how cute he is.
That evening I came home and closed the laundry door, thus sealing off his 24/7 access to his cat biscuits. Then I settle on the couch and begin to watch the news. It isn't long before I hear a carefully enunciated "Meow!" from the hallway. I turn my head and he is sitting there, eyeballing me with a look that says, "I know what you're doing and I DON'T LIKE IT." I turn back to the TV nonchalantly. I'm going to play it cool. Let's see how long it takes for this fluffy diva to freak out. The minutes pass. I look at him occasionally and say in between mouthfuls of chicken enchilada, "What's up Larry? You look a bit hungry there." After about fifteen minutes his self-assured gaze is starting to falter. He looks at the laundry and looks at me. After half an hour I feel appeased and get off the couch. He cautiously rubs against my leg and looks at me anxiously.
I open the laundry door and he goes to his food bowl with an apologetic meow.
Apology accepted.
