You all have been introduced to Amelie the cat. If you don’t remember, or are just now starting to read my blog, you can find her introduction here:
However, that post tended to focus a lot on Sadie. I’m almost positive that Amelie could sense that (or maybe even read it for herself) because ever since I wrote that post, she has done everything in her power to be an extremely noteworthy aspect of my life. Unfortunately, her main tactic for becoming famous in the interwebs seems to be by scaring me to within an inch of my life. Seriously, folks. If you feel faint at anytime, you should stop reading this horrific tale of cat and mouse, in which, of course, I am the rodent.
See, cat? Get off my back, you fuzzy little devil monkey. You win, damn you. You shall be immortalized in text.
Now, I’m going to save the most fearful anecdotes for last, so that you can work your way up to the realization of just what this cat is capable.
To begin, we’ll focus on her…
GUERRILLA NINJA ATTACKS
Like most cats, Amelie can often be appear as sweet, cuddly, and graceful as any owner could desire, charming you with her cheerful burbles and forehead nuzzles. However, it would be very foolish indeed to believe that this is reality. It is not. It is a disguise, and it is being used to lull us all into a fatal sense of complacency. Sweetness becomes manipulation. Cuddling becomes scent-marking. And grace can very easily be turned to stealth.
Still, as fully aware as I am of these polar shifts that cats can perform, I keep getting sucked in. I LOVE KITTIES. With their fuzzy little faces and jaunty whiskers and inquisitive noses, they can lull me any time, any place, any where. That MAY be why I have so many damn cat-induced scars. I just keep letting down my guard down, and I’m not even sure I want to stop. However, one should never be so foolish as to believe that cats don’t know this. Oh, no. They’re fully aware, and they are ALWAYS plotting.
Amelie, for instance, has mastered the art of the sneak attack, and has mastered it in such a way that it actually LOOKS unintentional. This is a crucial step. If I could be positive that she always did it on purpose, I might be tempted to take protective measures. But her attacks are so random and so apparently unwitting that I can never seem to devise a foolproof plan to save myself.
For example, for as long as I’ve known her, she’s been ridiculously intrigued by the shower. Every time we leave the bathroom door open, she slips past the shower curtain with a pleased “mrrfl,” and though I’m often tempted to turn the shower on at that point, purely for scientific observation, I resist, because again, she’s f*&!ing adorable. However, sometimes she’s so sneaky that I don’t even see her do it.
As a rule, we leave the shower curtain drawn when the shower’s not in use so that it can properly air out, but this has never sat easily with me. Showers are ideal hiding places for all kinds of serial killers and clowns, so when I have to sit down on the toilet within grabbing range of all the bogeymen, I get a little nervous. Occasionally, to prove to myself that I am an adult and should not be governed by such childish fears, I throw back the shower curtain as if to say “Come at me, creepy hidey people. I am fueled by fear, and will rip your face off before either of us knows what happened.” Usually, nothing at all happens, which is good, because if it did I would probably never sleep again. However, occasionally I throw back the curtain…and am bombarded by a fuzzy black-and-white torpedo of doom.
But less cute than this.
I don’t know how she manages to plan it so that she leaps out at the exact moment that I throw back the curtain, but every time she does, I can feel another year of my life erased. And then she rubs against my leg and purrs, so she lives to scare the hell out of me another day. Clever, kitty. Veeeeeery clever.
Then, in our most recent incident, I was doing yoga in the living room, relaxing quietly into my meditation. When I opened my eyes, I could see both of the entrances to the apartment out of my peripheral vision, and knew that I was alone in the house. This explains why, when someone grabbed my ass moments later, I nearly peed my pants. As I gasped, frightened and squeaky, dozens of possible options flashed through my head. We had a ghost, and he/she/it was feeling frisky. Somebody had snuck into the house while my eyes were closed. My butt was having some sort of odd spasm. As my lungs neared bursting, the unidentified hands resolved themselves into kneading paws, and Amelie chirped from behind me, having decided that my fantastic, firm rump was the best bracing spot for stretching herself ought. Needless to say, my zen was permanently broken, and I felt oddly violated.
Cats simply have no respect for personal space.
On that note, Amelie has taken to “helping” me when I’m working out on the floor. I think she thinks that if I have deigned to descend to her height, I must be just begging for some sweet kitty loving. Or, I’ve foolishly allowed myself to be in the perfect range for another nearly-fatal ninja attack. Either way, she takes advantage. I tend to close my eyes when doing a series of crunches, and Amelie always chooses this time to initiate her assault. She sidles up behind my head, waits for me to come back down out of the crunch, and then flops on my face with a satisfied burble. This is bad if I’m dry, but even worse if I’m sweaty. Cat hair floods into every irritating area as Amelie deploys her “shed like it’s going out of style” ploy, and I sputter helplessly as I try to figure out who blocked the sun with suffocating blackness. When I shove her off, she just curls around the back of my head while purring deafeningly, gripping my hair and occasionally nomming on it. I get more exercise defending myself from these pets than I do anywhere else. My muscles are tougher now, but my sinuses may be permanently clogged.
So, you get the general idea of Amelie’s sneaky harassment. However, that’s not her full arsenal. When creeping and suffocating aren’t enough to stop me, she tries scare tactics on a whole other, weirder level.
“I’M SERIOUS NOW” TACTICS
Among her most simple plots is the old trip-you-up scheme. If I am at home anytime from the hours of 3 pm to 6 pm, Amelie sets up a constant background chorus of agonized yowls and thundering dashes to the food closet, trying to intimate that I am indeed a cruel tyrant and starving her slowly to death. This is not true. She is quite healthy. However, on occasion I give in to the CONSTANT NOISE and feed her a little early, just to get some peace. As I go to the closet, Amelie dashes herself against it with all the drama in her little body, demonstrating her absolute gratitude for my benevolence. And yet, on the way back to her food bowl, she insists on running back and forth in front of my feet, inserting herself between them, and yowling the whole time. The cat food container is kind of big, so I usually can’t keep track of where she’s darted next, and the whole 15 feet from closet to food bowl is fraught with perilous pitfalls and sprained ankles. By the time this whole feeding ordeal is over, I sit frazzled but blissfully unbeleaguered at whatever I was trying to do before, while Amelie happily vacuums up her kitty kibble. If I’m lucky, I’m still coherent enough to give her only a very little food, because otherwise, I spend more time trying to find all the barf piles she will create. Her devious campaign never ends.
Next, she has her daily Crazy Hour. Cats sleep A LOT, as you may have observed, but most of them have a certain time of day in which their little brain wires get crossed and all hell breaks loose. At this point, Amelie turns from a dainty, elegant feline into a thundering herd of elephants. She races from room to room, bouncing off of furniture and careening up walls, babbling to the world at the top of her voice about how she is KITTY, HEAR HER ROAR. And there’s no warning this is coming. In one moment, you are happily ensconced in a book, eating your dinner, and in the next, you are huddled up in the corner of the couch, wondering what just happened and why the deity of your choice has forsaken you.
She also likes to try and scare me to death by attempting to get herself lost/injured/dead. As I mentioned before, I babysat both her and Sadie the dog for the last ~2 months, and it was a seriously harrowing experience. There’s nothing like being in charge to make things go wrong.
One of Amelie’s favorite activities has been to wander out the crack in the sliding glass door when I’m letting the dog go piddle. One minute, I have all my live charges accounted for, and the next minute the indoor cat has made a languid dash for freedom and adventure. The first time she did, my heart leapt into my throat as I darted for the last twitching bit of tail still inside the house. Prepared to chase her to Hell and back rather than admit to Chelsea that I’d lost her cat, I barreled out the door, only to find Amelie sitting calmly on the back porch, waiting for me with a smug, catty little look. She then sashayed back and sat at my feet, as if to say “This ground is too hot for my adorable pink toesies. Pick me up and take me back inside, bitch.”
And I did. Because I didn’t want Chelsea to kill me.
Then, Chelsea finally came home, and I thought that my trials of semi-parenthood were at an end. I was wrong. The other morning, as I was staring blearily into my soggy cereal, I heard Amelie make this strangled yowl, and she wobbled into the living room, shaking her head violently. Behind her, I saw a crumpled wasp stumble off into a corner, and my heart stopped for a moment. She’d attacked the wasp. She’d bitten it, and it had bitten back, stingy-style. She was going to go into some sort of swollen shock, and I was going to have to plunge a syringe of adrenalin directly into her heart, just like on Pulp Fiction. As might be obvious, I wasn’t actually sure what you’re supposed to do when someone’s allergic to a sting. And I’m still not. I might need to look that up.
Either way, she was fine. She pawed at her face for a bit, but it never swelled up, and I didn’t have to perform any Herculean efforts to save her fuzzy little butt. Which is good, because I wasn’t even really awake at the time.
So, now you know what an ass this cat can be. However, it’s possible for most of it to be construed as normal cat activity, or at least unfortunate coincidence. This last story, though, can be viewed as no less than outright aggression.
Shortly after I moved us all into the new apartment, I was sleeping soundly in my very own bedroom, in my very own bed, when I was awoken by the horrible sensation of being dragged from dreamland directly into a uneven brawl. I had foolishly left a glass on my headboard shelf the previous night, and Amelie had calmly walked over, examined it, and kicked it off the shelf, onto my head. At least, that’s how I imagine it. It’s possible she took a flying ninja kick at it. The truth is lost to history.
But it would look like this, if she was gray.
Either way, she shattered the glass over my head, surrounding me and the dog in pointy, slicey pieces, as I groggily tried to figure out what the hell had just happened to me. She then murfled happily as I froze in bed, trying to keep the dog still until I could figure out how best to exit the bed without looking like Edward Scissorhands had, under the influence of ecstasy, tried to give me a haircut. I did manage to, thankfully. Then, I dragged both the dog and cat out of the room, shut the door, stumbled off to work, and tried to tell my coworkers what had happened without sounding like I’d just lost a bar fight to a cute little kitty. Which didn’t happen. It wasn’t a fair fight. You don’t break glasses over a woman’s head when she’s down. It’s simply not done.
Anyway, if after all of this you STILL don’t understand how cats think, you should look at this link. http://www.goodeatsfanpage.com/humor/otherhumor/dog_cat_diary.htm
It explains it PERFECTLY. And with that, I’m signing off. If another post is ever posted, it is because I have managed to survive Amelie’s murderous attacks, despite all her plotty plottiness. Or, she has figured out how to manipulate a keyboard, and is merely keeping up a charade to direct suspicion away from herself.
Think happy thoughts for me, my fr—Hurk! Blegh! La;dsfj;asoijdcoijawiodds NO;alkjaldjladsfasd I’M TOO YOUNG al;djf;lasjdfaslsd gurgle…
Everything’s fine. Carry on. And bring me some fresh salmon. I’m feeling peckish.