Sixties Chick

What kind of person would kill her own cat, I wonder as I stand by the kitchen counter, knife in hand, ready to cut a big head of red leaf lettuce. Missy, my cat of 14 years, is crying, no screaming next to me. She is doing it now just as she does everyday, all day. Is it a cry for food? Attention? The urgency to get outside? A catnip fix? What then? I’m convinced it’s simply to undo me. And she’s doing a fine job because her cry is the most excruciatingly irksome cry I have ever heard. Worse than a baby’s… and there were times I wanted to kill her too. What kind of person, indeed!

Obviously, someone who would contemplate killing her own cat would not be someone who volunteers at the local shelter, nor gives money to PETA, nor feeds ferals slinking about in the back yard. It would not be someone who believes the stuff about the nine lives nor one who buys the concept of Karma. I, for one, know that killing my cat would not bode well for my next life, so I’d never risk it. But I am not proud of these urges, either.

This very morning, Missy sat by the side of my bed, quite poised and proper, screeching at the top of her little lungs. It was 5:10 am. She was inches from my head, her big Sophia Loren eyes staring at me as I came to; I, her kindly meal ticket, irritated as hell to have to wake up to such cacophony. Pleading with her to stop and go back to sleep, I extended my arm out of the covers to pet her. As I reached for the top of her lovely head, I could not help but think in that instant that I could put an end to this misery, hers and mine, particularly mine. All I had to do was merely slip my hand around her neck and squeeze hard. She is a petite cat. How hard could it be?

Now before you crazy cat lovers make a frantic 911 call to the SPCA, have a little compassion. Put yourself in my shoes. The cat I’ve known for so long has gone and done a Jekyll and Hyde on me. After13 peaceful years, Missy has morphed into someone else’s pet, an animal I no longer recognize. This once independent, low maintenance, quiet and serene felis catus has become a ferociously demanding feline. Loud and bossy, unrelenting, a nagging shrew.

I ask myself daily, “What happened to this docile, low maintenance cat? What happened to this good-natured, easy-go-lucky little kitty?” She had always been a good girl, a model pet, that is if you exclude the time she peed in my sister’s suitcase. But that was definitely the result of extenuating circumstances.

Could it be that she’s simply getting old? And with it cranky? Demanding? Wanting what she wants when she wants it? Could it be she’s sick and tired of waiting around for me to get the hell up in the morning, or annoyed at how long it takes me to open the back door, or disgusted with the generic brand of cat food I’ve been buying in an effort to cut expenses? Maybe she’s thinking, enough already. Attention must be paid!

Poor Missy. As her age increases, her patience decreases. Just like mine. As she grows old, she has less desire to put up with the nonsense in her world, with what aggravates her. Just like me. I watch her and think, that could be me some years down the road. I could be impossible too. I commiserate, but the fiendish thoughts of Dr. Catvorkian do not stop. The screeching could go on like this for another six years.

I have told my daughter who ironically nicknamed me Kitten several years ago, “if I should get like that, you know, ornery and irritating, bullying and ill-tempered, (that is, more than I already am … and I mean a lot more), you have my permission to quietly slip something into my margarita. But make it my third and only a margarita.”

My daughter laughs. She knows she’s stuck with me. Just as I’m stuck with Missy. What are ya gonna do? As they say, there’s no remedy for love. At least that’s what Missy and Kitten are counting on.

This entry was posted on April 9, 2009 at 6:09 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.