Friday, November 7, 2014

How I Love A Good Cat Fight

I am physical with my cats.

I rarely just pat them and walk away. Let’s just say I’m full on cat contact.

I have the scratches to prove it.


*hides claw marks*

So it occurred to me recently that my cats and I are a lot like Cato and Inspector Clouseau from the The Pink Panther movies. The two would engage in martial arts style attacks that was all in good fun even if it appeared a bit aggressive to the outside world.
Apparently I've always been a bit, uh, aggressive this way. When I was in kindergarten my family got our first cat, a prissy Siamese we named Princess. Somehow she was deemed my sister’s cat.

Maybe it was sibling rivalry. Maybe it was the fact that I was way more into stuffed animals than baby dolls. All I know was here was a real live stuffed animal-like animal and dammit, she was going to sleep with me.

Night after night I gently contained her despite her struggles to leave. And guess what? For many years until I went to college I was the one she called for and snuggled with when it was bedtime.

I’ve had many cats since and I've become only more physical with them. (I should add that Princess was de-clawed back when it was not considered cruel. We’ve never de-clawed a cat since. Darn!) 

I even work on some outdoor “ferals” I feed and shelter.

Feral — hah! They love me. They look at me with these goo-goo eyes when I come to feed them. Well, three do, the ones I've coaxed into letting me pet and scratch. Two others are more shy and those contacts are hard won. But I keep trying, usually sneaking my hand up from behind. Win!

See how excited s/he is to see me?

Of course, once they see it's me, they usually scurry way. To which I tease them: Oh, silly kitties, you luuuuuuuvvvvv it

My latest conquest, a new red cat, has been inching closer to me, his wet food source. I know nothing about him and have never gotten this one to a vet. So of course I offer my hand to him hoping he'll nuzzle it. Instead, he bats it instinctively and scratches my index finger. I think: He's so cute.

Days later my finger is increasingly red and sore. I end up on on a week of antibiotics. Score one for the red cat.

But my real acrobatics are with my three indoor cats, especially the boys, Bartholomew (right, aka Doobie) and Hucklebunny (upper left, aka Monkey). Tiny Dancer (bottom) not so much. She’s such a girl.

We are more like Cato versus Clouseau. Now you might say: Hey, that’s cruel and unusual punishment! I’m reporting you to the Humane Society!

That’s why my blog is anonymous. 


Please, people! I’d never hurt my babies. If anything, I’m the one who ends up with the claw marks — on my hands, arms, even through my eyebrow. 

Cats are some scary sh%^ when it comes down to it. I would never want to seriously tussle with an angry cat. Even declawed ones. They are evil mother-f---ing superpowers when they get mad or scared.

It’s all in fun, though even my mother would say, “Those poor cats.” Then she’d laugh.

Among our “games” are hide-and-seek with me leaping out to scare them as they round my hiding place.

They love it. What other human would spend this much time with them?


*karate kicks*

If they were children they’d be giggling with delight.

I also pick them up and swirl them around, stretching their bodies or somersaulting them over my head. If you ever watch pairs figure skating, it’s a lot like that. 

Olympic Pair Skaters Marcy Hinzman and Aaron Parchem
Photo by Robert Laberge - Getty Images

I know they love this. Otherwise, they’d run and hide from that freaky-lady-who-won’t-leave-us-alone.

Au contraire.

They seek me out. They surround me wherever I am as if I’m a warm campfire. 

They give me goo-goo eyes and trust me completely.

*Evil laughter*
PS: I'm not a crazy cat lady. *hisses*