"How to Live with a Calculating Cat"

A few weeks ago, my dad bought me this delightful little volume:

It has a sequel, "The Calculating Cat Returns."

 

This tiny tome illuminates the many ways by which cats, throughout the course of history, have manipulated humankind from "top of the food chain" to "humanoid slaves." But I'm quite sure it has missed a few methods, because I have a cat hellbent on creating new ones. People lovingly refer to my beast as having "personality." Do not be fooled: this is just a rather nice way of saying he is especially devious and entirely too narcissistic for anyone's good. Cats, you might argue, are naturally devious and narcissistic. This is true. Don't get me wrong: I rather like cats. I'll be the first to disembowel you if you lay a hurtful finger on mine. That being said, however, the beast called Jude could win awards for devious narcissism. In case you aren't convinced, here are a few of his "personality" traits:

1. If I spend too long away from home, (by which I mean, like, an hour) Jude is quite likely to throw himself onto the floor behind the front door and stick his adorable little white paws out into the corridor, where he makes the little paws go, "Pat, pat, pat" on the tile while crying piteously. This has been known to draw a gaggle of old ladies to him, so that I arrive home to find four of them sitting in the hall outside my door stroking the little white paws while their owner purrs like a diesel engine. The ladies make noises about how sad it is that the poor wittle baby is home alone, and the "poor wittle baby" spends the rest of the day looking smug and self-righteous.

2. "Poor wittle baby" will do something he knows darn well he isn't supposed to do --walk back and forth on top of the dresser, endangering the wholeness of my Granny's dolls, for example -- just to get my attention. I will impose appropriate sanctions (i.e. picking him up and dumping him unceremoniously on the floor.) He will express his displeasure for about thirty minutes by turning and presenting me with an unobstructed view of his butt every time I glance his way, after which he will pretend to have forgiven me and beg and beg for me to play with him. Sometimes our games go swimmingly. Other times, depending on the severity of the bruise to his ego, he will suddenly flatten his ears, bite me hard enough to provoke a shout, and then hiss and run like hell. This is not play. It is deliberate punishment. I have lived with this cat long enough to know the difference.

3. He smacks my dates. Picture a winter's afternoon about 4 years ago. Then-girlfriend and myself are sitting side-by-side on the loveseat, holding hands and talking gooey to each other. Needless to say, we have not been paying attention to him: in fact, we've just concluded a marathon makeout session, during which we paused from time to time to poke fun at him as he slumped in a chair across the room, looking more and more dejected as the hours passed. Sensing that we were finally finito -- at least for the day -- El Juderino abandoned his post to jump up into my lap. He paused a moment to rub his head under my chin, then walked regally into ex's lap, looked her straight in the eye, drew back a paw, and slapped her silly. Then he hopped down and calmly walked away, tail in the air like a flag of victory. (Leaving ex going, "Oh my god, the little shit hit me!" I told her to stop calling my baby names, because it's not like he actually has claws. Looking back, I should have seen this as the first in a series of events that led to the dissolution of our amorous partnership.)

Still not convinced? Alright, alright. If that last item can't convince you I'm not sure anything will, but consider this:

4. For the past few years, Jude has been on an absurdly expensive prescription diet. This is due to his propensity to produce crystallized urine and develop urinary tract infections. His pH is, um, "Whack." Said food balances his whack pH -- for approximately $51 per 17.5 lb. bag. Thankfully, it works. It is also super-duper nutritious in a variety of other ways, and very nutritionally efficient: it's so packed with everything he needs, it can make him rather fat if I don't watch his portions. The vet said to feed him 1/2 a cup per day, but I feel sorry for his rumbly tummy and give him a whole one, split between morning and evening. On top of this veritable superfood, he gets treats and the occasional can of Fancy Feast or little piece of chicken or steak. He is not at want for kibbles OR bits. He is glossy, soft, and even a bit chubby. This does not stop him from trying to convince me that he is starving to death. Previous attempts to force me to feed him have included howling like a banshee, tromping back and forth on my bladder at 5 a.m., throwing himself at the closet door till I'm convinced he'll either break the door or a rib, ripping up paper towels and kitchen sponges, and simply staring hot little holes straight through the center of my soul and out the other side. His latest ploy is desperate, even for him: he has been known to eat no-see-ums off the floor and gaze at me pointedly the entire time to communicate the dire straits I have put him in, but lately he has taken to eating little carpet-y bits and other oddments and then PRETENDING TO THROW UP, hoping I might feel sorry for him and give him more food to replace his falsely regurgitated stomach contents. (I do this for him when he is actually sick, except then I soak it in broth first to make it easier to digest. He knows this. He likes it. A lot.) That's right: my cat tries to fake me out with made-up illnesses. He practically plays hooky for food. He would sell himself in the street for food if I'd let him.

That, my friends, is a Calculating Cat. He dares you to prove otherwise.