(The parenthetical portion of the above paragraph is all bullshit.)
This is the story of a man and his cat.
A cat who used to be mine, a cat I knew. As a tiny kitten, she came into my home, which was a shabby second-floor-and-attic with thin taupe carpeting and a linoleum bedroom floor. I was sad, alone, and a senior in college, living by myself when PHubby and I broke up.
*sob*
My mother, concerned of course that I would probably die an old maid still crying over that irrationally thin rugby kid I brought home a couple summers in college, suggested I get a cat. My dad wanted to be angry about the new pet, I could tell, but my mother took the fall.
I was aware of that dynamic, but I pretended to ignore it by acting happier than I actually was about being a single 21-year-old living alone with a cat. Because at least I had a cat.
Isabella was a tiny little alley cat, mostly black with a white bib and white paws. Her ears were impossibly huge. A classmate of mine tried to save her but the mewing all night was driving her crazy. I was just the sort of sad, pathetic break-up mess that needed something new to obsess over and a warm body to snuggle at bedtime.
PHubby watched her while I bought some new pet supplies. Even though he was my ex. Because I asked him to watch my kitten - a really awkward question because I knew how it seemed.
Unfortunately, I was in a jam because I had not prepared at all for the new cat - starting with the cat carrier. The error soon revealed itself because Isabella, as a 2-month-old kitten, repeatedly and violently flung herself at the windshield of my navy blue '86 Mustang convertible.
After driving her the five blocks to my apartment and taking her upstairs, I was pleased she survived the drive and seemed to like the joint. Soon, she would need to use a litter box, and I didn't have one. I did, however, have a 2-pound furry psycho who was willing to fling herself repeatedly against a windshield, a bucket of bleach in the kitchen, and a lot of dangerous small spaces.
Luckily, I also had an ex-boyfriend (PHubby) with a cat of his own (with litterbox) who lived in walking distance.
I swallowed my pride and called PHubby, who kindly watched the cat for 20 minutes while I went out and bought supplies.
Now, long story short, a few weeks later, PHubby wooed me back with blueberry pie and coffee at the Amish truck stop and a screening of Orgazmo in my apartment.
I know what you're thinking: God, that's romantic. But that's only because you don't know the most romantic thing PHubby's ever done, which was to yell "Yahtzee" during climax. We can all agree that was not only extremely sexy, but also thoughtful and kind of epic. (Happy V-Day, baby. This one's for you.) (Also, sorry Mom.)
That was the day Isabella first showed herself to be a traitor, because she was all over him while I was trying to play hard to get.
Isabella is a lap cat. She likes to sleep at the foot of the bed, and she particularly enjoys face pets. Pick her up, and she turns into a fierce shredding machine. She sincerely believes if she is picked up, she will be skinned alive and her still-wriggling body will be seared on a barbecue grill. And, let's face it, if she claws me like that one more fucking time, she might be right.
A few years ago, PHubby decided he'd have none of that. He would pick her up and she would like it.
For a few seconds at a time, he would hold her firmly in his arms and pet her. Then, he'd put her down and she'd run away. He slowly increased the length of time he would hold her.
Now, she'll stay in his arms as long as he determines.
She prefers him. She loves me, but if she's looking for a can of wet food or a nice long petting session, she goes to him. (To be fair, he has impeccable tension and rhythm with head pets.)
She was my kitten. My sweet little Halloween cat who liked to be scared and was forever arching her back. She snuggled me all the time, and chirped at the birds she saw at the window. Now, she loves him more. Her affections lay elsewhere.
He says people should hire him to condition cats. He says he won her over with "a series of rape snuggles."
I say she has Stockholm Syndrome, and maybe that's insensitive of me because I heard Jaycee Dugard totally had it, and really regrets it. She was kidnapped from her bus stop at age 11 by Phillip Garrido and then was rescued 18 years and two kids later.
But, to be fair, if you have positive feelings for an old dude who kidnapped you from your suburban family at age 11 and repeatedly raped you and made you live under a tarp in the backyard, it's probably because you were asking for it with your sexy Osh Kosh overalls.
Anyway, everything worked out for Belle in "Beauty and the Beast," so it's probably fine.
