Critter Capers
by Margaret Stinson
When a child gets married, you not only take on a daughter or son-in-law, you also become grandma to that household’s animals. So it was when my eldest son married. His new wife came with a cat (one, which, to his constant consternation, he obtained as a present for her).
Kitty and I never really hit it off. Oh, I really liked her; but she decided from the get-go that I was number one on her hate list. I did everything imaginable to try and change her mind, but she was definitely the toughest customer I had ever run across. Our relationship was a constant guilt trip for my daughter-in-law, but her explaining of the facts of life to Kitty just fell on deaf ears. When I entered the house, Kitty would either dash through her cat-door into the basement, or stick around and try to stare me to death. When that didn’t work, she would hiss and snarl and take claws-out swipes at me. I didn’t go barefoot in that house.
Then, after my son’s second child was born, everything changed, or so I originally thought! I took a couple of weeks off and stayed in Calgary so I could help babysit his daughter. For the first few days, Kitty was her usual self. Then, miraculously, she began to warm up to me. She would wander around the house as if I wasn’t there, then she got closer to me and occasionally purred. Wow! Things were looking up. Maybe we could be friends after all.
One day she jumped up on the sofa where I was parked and sat beside me for some time with her claws retracted. Then the next day, she sat on my lap for a few minutes. Day Three of Breakthrough: She was in my lap, purring, kneading and nuzzling. I was petting her as she slowly inched up my body coming closer to my face. I was enjoying this Kitty-cuddling so much I forgot to be wary. In a nanosecond, the claws came out and she attacked my neck.
Not only was I scratched (jugular intact thankfully), I was crushed. Cats like me! Why didn’t she? This might necessitate a trip to the therapist. Better yet, take Miss Kitty to a cat psychologist .
Lightbulb! She is obviously a psychopathic cat of extreme intelligence. She lulled me into believing she was warming up to me – what a dope I was. Her intent is obviously to eliminate me with extreme prejudice. Maybe in a former life she was a Kitty Seal, Green Beret or other Special Forces Cat. Then I remembered her other little quirks. She was fond of jumping on the table, pushing small plates and cups of liquid close to the edge, then pushing them off and watching them smash on the floor. That behavior definitely shows anti-social and violent tendencies.
This was a hopeless situation. I would have to concentrate on ways to protect myself. Could I get a neuro or some other ologist to install two more eyes, and position them so each eye was pointing in a different direction. I could take to arming myself with a water gun, steel-toed boots and body armor. No – too hot in the summer. I would have to be diligent – especially when I was sleeping. Never know what SF Kitty would do when one was slumbering.
What a dilemma! How could I tell my children that their house was an armed camp? How would my grandchildren’s psyches be affected?
There is no ending to this story – at least, not yet. In my will, I plan to direct my progeny to interrogate Miss Kitty if my death should be ruled a homicide or a suspicious accident.
