#32: Cat and Mouse

Based on a true story. Out of respect, the names of the characters have been changed.

Some nights when I get home in the wee hours, Charlie appears seemingly out of nowhere. I don’t know how she does it. It’s as if she materializes out of a nearby shadow and then calls out to me in a scolding way, saying something along the lines of “where in the hell have you been I’ve been up all night waiting for you you asshole”.

Her real owner calls her with a distinct two-note whistle every morning and evening from the window of her third floor apartment. I’ve practiced the whistle again and again, but it doesn’t seem to have the same effect when I do it. I think when it comes to me, she listens for different sounds. The clank of my bike against the fence or the desperate opening of my mailbox, to find it empty or at best filled with a promotional brochure from the national lottery, addressed to the previous tenant. Maybe she sneaks out from under the grey Fiat Panda out of pity for me. Pity for my empty mailbox and the swaying, uncoordinated way I fumble through my keys to open the gate.

But it can’t be all pity, because there’s something in it for her too. Our relationship is one of transactional nature. She knows I’m at my weakest on Friday and/or Saturday nights between 2 and 4 am. All sense of self control have long been thrown out the window. So when she trails behind me from the gate to my front door, she is fully aware that I don’t stand a chance. She slips through the door as I open it, and runs for her bowl, where she then sits with her tail curled around her front paws, staring at me submissively until I inevitably fold and crack open the can of tuna that I bought a few days prior, knowing full well that we would end up doing this dance come Friday night.

Like I said; this goes two ways, it’s give and take. As soon as Charlie has wolfed down the full can and licked her bowl clean she scurries to the bedroom door, pries it open with her right paw and jumps onto my bed. While I wait for the water to boil so I can make instant noodles, she claims her spot in the middle of the mattress and begins her meticulous cleaning routine. Then, with the taste of soy sauce lingering in my mouth, I stumble to my bedroom and deliberate the consequences of not brushing my teeth. As usual, they seem to be minor so I crawl into bed and am forced to choose either the left side or the right side, as the middle is now occupied. If I try to move her, I risk pissing her off, causing a big scene and one of us sleeping on the couch. So, instead, I concede and curl around her in an awkward half moon on whichever side has the most covers left. If I’m lucky it’s just enough to cover my back.

She’s typically fast asleep by this point and will remain so for a few hours, until she figures it’s time for breakfast and thus for me to crawl to the kitchen in an inebriated daze. For this part of the procedure, she’s figured out a clever way to get me up and out of bed.

It starts with a few passive aggressive laps around my pillow, then a few impatient repetitions of standing up and sitting back down to gently pull me from my murky, restless sleep. This is often successful, but out of spite I roll over and ignore her. Also to test what she’ll do next. At this point she walks back around to whichever side I’m facing and throws in a few purrs. Still, I don’t give in and tell her to f off and leave me alone and didn’t I feed you literally four hours ago you fat lard. At this precarious stage, she knows not to fight fire with fire and opts instead to double down on charm. I then sense her creeping up on me, her shallow exhales getting closer and closer until it starts.

First, a lick on my nose. Then the side of my mouth. Then the full width of my upper lip. Not rough cleansing licks, but gentle, manipulative licks. Admittedly, my heart melts a little at this point, but much more than that I feel the impending bombing of Dresden coming on inside my skull. I tell her as nicely as I can that she can try again later, and to get some more sleep. Then I roll over again and cover the bottom half of my face with my blanket to prevent more seductive lickings.

This is the tipping point, where things always turn sour. She feels that she tried her best to ask politely and be gentle, and I feel that I’ve been more than forthcoming enough. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you kind of thing. The first time we got to this junction she scared the shit out of me. Within a minute of my rollover, I felt a fully extended claw sink into the right side of my neck and pull back fiercely. I jumped up, my hand on my neck, planes roaring through the back of my head.

The way she sat there and looked up at me is hard to describe, but I swear I’ve never seen a non-human entity look so convincingly human before or since. “I tried to be nice but you leave me no other choice. It’s not my problem you’re a degenerate too incompetent to even half-care for a cat. A cat that isn’t even yours to begin with. I’m glad you’re not my real owner because most likely I would have been dead by now. I just come here for the food and a place to crash. You get yours and I get mine. Now for the love of God will you please feed me.”

Just those two big yellow eyes looking at me.

We then proceed in silence (one of defeat on my part and of triumph on hers) to the grand finale. As the bombs drop in my head I shuffle to the kitchen, where she waits patiently by her bowl. I grab the bag of dry food that I keep for emergencies and pour her a generous portion. I don’t return to bed yet and wait for her to finish, because the last and final step is always the same. She trots to the front door, licking the sides of her mouth clean, I open the door for her and then she runs out into the garden and past the gate.

Still, it beats waking up alone.