Lessons In Stalking: Adjusting to Life With Cats (7 page)

-18-

Can You See Me?

When she was little, my sister used to poke her fingers beneath the bathroom door and wiggle them.

“Can you see me?” she’d ask.

“Go away,” whoever was inside would answer.

She would shove her hand further beneath the door.

“Now? Can you see me now?”

“Yes, I see you now. Can you please go away for a few minutes?”

The hand would disappear and there would be a light thud as she leaned her small body against the door.

“When are you coming out?”

We were all happy to see that phase end, and I thought my days of being stalked while on the toilet were over. I admit to giggling when friends moaned about how their children never left them alone, even when they were in the bathroom.

“Should’ve had cats,” I informed them smugly.

But my life of bathroom solitude has been upended.

Both cats have recently decided they can’t abide a closed door, be it a closet door, bedroom door, or—you guessed it—bathroom door.

They scared the daylights out of me the first time. I woke in the middle of the night and felt my way to the bathroom. Half asleep, I sat on the toilet, when suddenly, “Whump!” The bathroom door flew open and a small tabby cat stood illuminated in the doorway. She gazed steadily at me before turning away. My heart raced. I felt like I’d been given a warning visit by the kitty Mafia.

Keep the door open, or else.

I alerted my husband the next morning. “Better lock the door when you’re in the bathroom.”

“Why? Is asking you to stay out not enough?”

“No, it’s the cats,” I said, looking over my shoulder. “They don’t like closed doors.”

“Uh-huh,” he said slowly. “And I should be concerned…why?”

But Mister Oh-so-smart wasn’t laughing when the cats body-slammed the bathroom door open while he was reading Newsweek. I was upstairs when I heard his call for help.

“Would you get the cats out of here?” he asked. “I can’t do this with them watching.”

So we started locking the door. That’s when tiny paws began to appear underneath the door.

It was cute for a while. A tiny white paw would slide beneath the door and tap the floor.

Can you see me?

But then there was the talking. Finding the door wouldn’t budge and unable to reach us from beneath the door, the cats would sit outside the locked door and “talk” to the person inside.

“Mrow. Rowr-rowr. Mow?”

When are you coming out?

The best though, was coming home early and finding both cats sitting outside the bathroom where my husband had locked himself in. He was talking back to them.

“Rowr? Meow, meow,” said the cats.

“Yeah, I know. I hate when that happens,” he answered through the closed door.

“Purr, rowr-meow.”

“Really? So what did you tell them?”

“Mow! Psfft! Meow.”

“Ah, ha ha,” he said. “You are so clever.”

“Honey?” I knocked. “Everything okay?”

There was a moment of silence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he called back.

I wasn’t letting him off that easy. I squatted on the floor and wriggled my fingers beneath the door. “Can you see me?”

I asked.

“Go away,” he growled.

I scratched on the door. “So when are you coming out?”

“The minute I do I’m having you committed,” he warned. “Go away!”

And so it went. We had pretty much resigned ourselves to a life of potty-patrol, when luck struck. Running into the house one day, I dashed for the bathroom without bothering to close the door. No cats appeared. Excellent. I shared my discovery that night with my husband.

“I broke the code!” I said. “We need to adopt an opendoor policy. If you don’t close the door, they take no interest in what you’re doing in there.”

He seemed less than thrilled. “But I like closing the door.”

I sighed. “Pee with an audience outside a closed door or do your business in peace with an open one. It’s your choice.”

“I miss our life before cats,” he said.

He has a point. It was nice when we had some say so over the ajar status of doors in our home. Still, even with all the bother, it’s nice knowing you are so important to someone that every minute apart counts.

“Mrow?”

Yes, I’ll be out soon.

-19-

Tacky Tape Sucks &

Other Reasons I Can’t Own Nice Furniture

Tacky Tape. Transparent, thin pieces of what is essentially two-sided tape which may be applied directly to fabric to keep cats from using furniture as sharpening posts.

In bold letters on the package front it advertises that Tacky Tape “STOPS CATS FROM DESTROYING FURNITURE.”

Right.

After spending twenty minutes removing the individual Tacky Tape strips from their brown base sheet and positioning the sticky side down on my furniture, then cracking and peeling the white application paper on top to reveal the exterior sticky side (Apparently you must have some sort of science degree to properly mount your Tacky Tape. Liberal Arts majors beware), I managed to end up surrounded by twenty balled up wads of Tacky Tape.

Miraculously, I managed to apply the last two strips to our twin library chairs where our cats love to sharpen their claws.

The idea of Tacky Tape is that when your cat reaches up to claw the chair their paw will stick to the tape. They will not enjoy this sensation and will be cured for life from any lingering desire to use said chair for sharpening their claws.

You betcha.

It almost worked on the kitten. She walked up to the tape and gave a hesitant sniff. She sat by the corner of the chair, unsure how to proceed. The cat had no such qualms.

She marched up to the Tacky Tape and batted at it. This slight motion knocked half the Tacky Tape off the chair, so it was now fluttering like a banner in the wind. The cat went in for the kill, grabbed the fluttering end of the tape in her mouth and pulled the Tacky Tape (“STOPS CATS FROM DESTROYING

FURNITURE”) off the chair and onto the floor where she proceeded to make origami animals out of it.

We gave up on the Tacky Tape. (I was still incensed about the swan the cat made from the last ball of tape.) We had other things to worry about. Namely, our upcoming meeting with the designer who was to help us select fabric for our new couch.

The meeting started on a positive note. We explained to the designer we were looking for a couch that was both casual and elegant, something you’d feel comfortable lying on to watch TV or inviting guests to sit on. We spoke in hushed, modulated tones, and the designer nodded 113 approvingly and said she had several beautiful fabrics she thought would meet our needs.

She brought the first one out and my husband and I exchanged a troubled glance. It was a weave pattern with tiny threads in crisscross stitches just begging to be plucked apart by sharp kitty claws. We exclaimed over the beauty of the fabric but said it wasn’t quite what we were looking for.

No problem, said the designer. She returned with a stunning floral fabric of silk brocade flowers. She was raving about the timeless statement of classic elegance such a fabric boasted when I interrupted.

“Um, I don’t think that’s for us.”

The designer kept her smile in place. “And why not?”

I gave a nervous laugh and looked at my husband who shrugged. “Well, you see, our cats would destroy the threads in those flowers before we even got the plastic off the couch.”

“Ah, I see,” said the designer, never losing her smile.

“Well, we have many different fabrics so I’m sure we’ll find the right one for you.”

Two hours and fifty fabric samples later we left the designer in a sobbing huddled mass in the corner of her store. We had categorically rejected every piece she brought out. Too woven, too many threads, too much fringe, no tassels allowed, dark colors show cat hair. I knew it was time to leave when the designer presented us with a piece of burlap and wished us the best of luck.

So we sit at home and dream about the day when we’ll be able to pick out furniture we actually like and not furniture designed to withstand World War III. Until then, we’re taking the advice of designers everywhere and using accent pieces to try and dress up the house.

The Tacky Tape swan, in particular we feel, lends a touch of elegance to our home.

-20-

Morning Revelry

My husband and I consider ourselves adults. We hold jobs, pay bills, and brush regularly. Yet every morning at five AM we are forced to feign death in the hopes of catching just a little more shut-eye. Basically, we’re two thirty-five year olds playing possum.

We lay side-by-side in bed, motionless, feigning deepsleep breathing. Aware that each other is awake, but neither willing to admit it, we are careful not to roll over, cough, or show any sign of life.

The reason for us lying statue-like is a small, furry creature perched on a chair across from our bed, right under the windows. It is our kitten, who has decided she is hungry.

She knows food is forthcoming only after one of the large two-legged creatures she lives with gets out of bed. Therefore, she is on a mission.

“Mrow,” she says.

It’s crucial not to be the first to move. The bed is soft and warm, the stakes are high. We make little smacking sounds with our lips, trying to convince the other we are really asleep.

The kitten hops off the chair, crosses the floor, and leaps onto the bed, which is to my advantage. I love the feel of a small cat crawling over me. My husband, on the other hand, does not.

She purrs around our heads, encouraging us to wake up. I don’t move. I feel my husband clench and unclench his fists. Sitting up, he deposits the kitten on the floor. He punches his pillow and quickly lies back down.

Wife – 1, Husband – 0.

Having seen signs of life, the kitten is encouraged. She hops back up on the chair and starts batting the wooden window blinds against the glass. The bedroom vibrates with the reverberations.

After a few minutes of the wooden blind death rattle, the kitten appears to have given up. There is silence. We both relax and start to drift back into real sleep.

“Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching.” She’s back, having located her jingle ball and nudged it into our bedroom. She is now under our bed, racing in circles as she chases it around.

“Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching.”

I bite my lip and taste the sweat there. She’s good.

The noise of the jingle ball has brought the cat on the run. She’s constantly afraid we’re playing with the kitten and forgetting to include her. She breathes a sigh of relief when she sees the kitten playing solo and two lumps still tucked 117 in bed. Unfortunately, seeing us tucked in and comfortable reminds her she’s hungry too, and the cats decide to doubleteam us.

The cat takes over jingle ball duties (ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching), while the kitten hops back up to the blinds. (Rattle rattle. Rattle rattle.)

The bedroom is a cacophony of noise: Ka-ching, rattlerattle, ka-ching, rattle rattle. Ka-ching, rattle, ka-ching, rattle.

I can’t stand it any more. “Shut up!” I yell at the cats.

My husband’s voice comes muffled from under the covers.

“You spoke first. You lose. Go feed them so I can get some sleep.”

I rip the covers off him. I am not in the best of humor in the mornings, especially at five AM.

“You were the one who sat up and put the kitten on the floor so technically you were awake first and you should be the one to get up.”

“If you heard me put the kitten on the floor that means you were awake and just pretending to be asleep, which is a terrible thing to do, so you should be the one to get up.”

“No, you.”

“No, you.”

“Mrow-rowr!!” wail both cats. They pick up the pace.

Ka-ching-rattle, ka-ching-rattle.

I hold my hands over my ears and glare at my husband.

“Get up.”

He pulls the covers up and rolls over. “Eat dirt.”

I lay back down. “If you’re not getting up, I’m not getting up.”

We lie in bed and glare at the ceiling. There is no hope of either of us getting any more sleep.

I turn my head and look at my husband. “Together on the count of three?”

He nods.

“One…”

We roll the covers back.

“Two…”

We both put a foot on the floor and look suspiciously at one another.

“Three!” He stands up and I fling myself back into bed.

Wife - 2, Husband – 0.

An hour later guilt overtakes me and I pad out to the kitchen where he is sitting and put my arms around him, kissing the top of his head.

“How about if I promise to be the one to get up and feed the cats tomorrow?” I ask.

“That’s what you said yesterday.”

I sigh. He’s right. My intentions are good, but when it’s 5 AM and cold and dark outside the warmth of the bed, I know I will once again feign death in the hopes he’ll get up first. And he’ll do the same.

But we are united on one front.

The cats are comatose on the couch, satiated and asleep.

We sneak up behind them and on the count of three I rattle the blinds while he wings a jingle ball along the floor.

The cats hit the ceiling.

That’s right, baby. Score one for the humans.

The End