Just Pretend I'm Not Here

If you've ever loved a cat, you know they sometimes love you back - oddly, occasionally, inconveniently - if not madly, truly, deeply. Every cat I've ever loved had its own peculiar preferences for spending time with me. 

Take my cat, Silas, a large orange tabby. Si's idea of a cozy rendezvous is sitting with me in the bathroom. If I do manage to sneak into the loo without him, he paws the door hard until it sounds like someone's trying to pound it down - which someone kind of is. The pawing is relentless, and even a task as basic as the one he's interrupting becomes impossible. 

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Sometimes, if I'm home alone, I leave the door ajar so I won't have to get up and let him in. Within seconds, his basketball head butts the door wide open, chonky middle following, and tail, pointing straight up like the mast on a frigate. He strolls in as if to say, "Everything is under control! Go about your business! Just pretend I'm not here!" 

Once in, his approach and demeanor vary depending on his mood. There's the version where he plops down on the bath mat and settles in like the customer at an all-you-can-eat buffet who’s cleaned out the hush puppies pan - twice - and is prepared to wait for as long as it takes for a fresh batch to be fried - 20 minutes before closing time. 

A variation on that theme is Silas, the annoying neighbor. Wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian print shirt and plaid shorts, this neighbor flops down in your backyard chaise just as you were about to nap in it and brings only one beer - the one he's drinking. 

Sometimes, thinking I'm alone, I'll wonder where Si is only to see him emerge without warning from the linen closet or under the sink - like an Addams Family member roaming through hidden tunnels or behind walls to appear when you least expect it. 

When I'm running late, standing at the mirror, frantically slapping on makeup, Silas plucks my last nerve by doing figure-eights around and between my ankles. If Silas were human, he'd be that guy who wakes his wife up at 5 a.m. bugging her for you-know-what. 

My favorite Silas move - the one that makes me smile, even as I glance at my watch - is the one where he settles atop my bare feet with his paws curled against his chest and purrs. One could argue that there's a whiff of practicality in this, that Silas is holding me hostage in my own bathroom just so he can warm himself with my body heat. But how do we know Silas isn't trying to warm me? Or maybe he's killing two birds with one stone by keeping us both warm. Diapering babies, cooking someone’s dinner, patching a kid's jeans, shoveling a neighbor’s sidewalk are often acts of love masquerading as practical tasks.

When Silas lays on my feet, his purr seems primeval like something that has rumbled since the dawn of time. 

Why should I worry that he's slowing me down - especially when I’m going too fast to begin with? Why shouldn't I admire the ingenuity he tapped with this win-win solution for warming us both? 

And why shouldn't a cat and its human meet up around the toilet just so they can be together for a while? Humans have done it around bonfires, funeral pyres, and office water-coolers for years. 

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What's New, Silas?

Our cat, Silas is a brat - a big, orange-furred, basketball-esque brat. Silas operates under the conviction that everyone who sees him, loves him and that his charm will get him out of every scrape. 

Silas used to be right.

Kitty in a Nightcap. Image by Teece Aronin.

There are a lot of things Silas used to be - a baffled, innocent wisp of buff fluff, nestled in my cupped palms, for instance. As he grew older, he grew bolder and oranger, throwing his weight around with an "I've-been-on-the-planet-for-under-a-year-and-already-you're wrapped-around-my-little-polydactyl-thumb" kind of attitude. 

Silas didn't only grow older, bolder, and oranger; he grew bigger. His head outweighs most cats. He enjoys waiting until I've climbed into the shower to start pounding at the bathroom door. Because he's huge, I can't tell if he's clawing the door, battering the door with his head, or swinging a mallet at the door, because with Silas, all of those things would sound the same.

At the end of the day, he climbs into bed with me then jumps down a minute later. Then he’s back up, and then he jumps down. This happens half a dozen times while in between, I stroke his face and coo to him to lie down.

Once, by some miracle, I'm sleeping, and Silas is satisfied that I'm deep into the REM stage, he pussyfoots across the top of my pillow, stepping on my hair and pulling it hard until he reaches the nightstand. The nightstand is where my lip balm, ibuprofen, earrings, and water glass beckon to him like sirens on a tabletop shore.

"No, Silas," I mutter. "No, honey. Come here. Come here, Silas. Silas, leave those alone. Would you cut that OUT?  Silas, don't make me come over there. Silas, please! Silas, I mean it!" Ten minutes later, he's at it again, this time pausing to chew on the tag I'm afraid to cut off my pillow for fear of arrest. 

In the morning, I wake, exhausted. Silas is next to me, sleeping sprawled on his back. I dress for work. On my way out the door, I start the song "What's New, Pussycat" by Tom Jones with the CD player set to REPEAT TRACK. I wave toodles at him and slip out the door.  

I plan to work late that night.

We'll talk it over at bedtime.

Two Tabbies and a Motherly Mutt

Poor Kitt. 

Kitt is a gray tabby, and she was our only pet until the kids and I adopted Hope, a high-strung, black and white mutt with low self-esteem and an intense desire to people-please. Since Kitt wasn't a people, Hope's concern didn't extend very far in her direction. So Kitt galumphed around the house, looking disgusted and put out. Still, over time, a certain partnership developed between them.

When Kitt and Hope were each about five years-old, another interloper moved in, an orange tabby kitten we named Silas. Hope, in her inscrutable wisdom, saw fit to mother Silas and would groom him, shepherd him, and watch over him as he suckled from a blanket amidst those stilts she calls legs. Hope was so busy with Silas that she pretty much forgot about Kitt.

Silas loved Hope and really did seem to think he'd been blessed with a new mother, which in a way, he had, although I'm not sure blessed is the right word. Hope could be overprotective and a tough disciplinarian. If I scolded Silas, Hope would spring to attention, cuff his ears, and herd him away. It was as if no one was going to discipline her child for long before she'd be back in charge, taking matters into her own paws. Still, Silas was thrilled so that was nice.

Hope let Silas climb on her, and chew on her, and pounce unexpectedly on her, while Kitt sat across the room, watching in that I-don't-care-but-you-know-I-really-do kind of way that only cats can. Sometimes even Hope, who is an energetic dog, looked worn out, as all mothers do at times.

Poor Hope.

When Silas did try to befriend Kitt, he didn't know how to do it in a way acceptable to her. Sometimes he would join her on my bed and the two would doze peacefully together - four feet apart.

But most of the time, Silas would chase Kitt and jump on her until Kitt took off for higher ground as if Silas were a flood. 

Sometimes I'd catch Kitt looking out the window and wondered if she was planning to leave. 
















Then something happened that neither Hope nor Kitt, and certainly not Silas could have foreseen. Silas began to grow up. He got bigger and acted more like a cat than a kitten. He wasn't as dependent on Hope anymore, though they still enjoyed each other's company, and more often, he was content just to be by himself. 

Silas also began enjoying the doings of us humans. He wanted to be nearby for our baths and our naps and especially our dinnertimes. He liked working on his big guy swagger so he could seem like an even more grownup cat.

Eventually, Silas was so grown up that he was just as likely to be the one looking at Hope like she was the crazy kid instead of the other way around like it used to be. 

Then one day I caught Silas looking out the window as though he wanted to leave. 

Poor Silas.

But Silas was willing to watch and wait just as Kitt had done, and maybe he'd learned his patience from her. Over time, the three of them found their way and settled in like their own little family, even though Kitt still looks more put out than the other two. 

Frankly, I think Kitt is happier than she looks. One day, not long ago while Silas napped, I glanced over and saw this. 

                                                                                                   Lucky Hope and Kitt.

All photos by Teece Aronin. Copyright protected. Some photos available for sale at Redbubble.com/people/phylliswalter.