Friday, January 4, 2013

My Cat Hates My Child.


Upon picking up the hundreds of family photographs my three year old had strewn around the house, I noticed an eerie similarity. Each photo had been taken from the first three years of my child’s life, and in each one, was a very angry looking cat. The cat is Rowy, a 7 year old tabby male I rescued as a kitten.
I picked up a picture, noticing his grimacing face in the background. A photo of Bre's first roll over, in the background Rowy licks his paw, one eye focused on me. A photo of Bre asleep in her baby swing. Rowy perched above her on the coffee table, leering. Picture after picture that capture the precious “firsts” of my daughter’s life, there is an angry cat, seething with hatred.
On an impulse, I decided to check out some of the home movies. There he is, watching her intently; at times he slowly turns his gaze to me, with hate filled kitty eyes. In each video, I am oblivious to his obvious issues with me, as I ooo and ahhh over her baby accomplishments.
Transferring children to bed when they fall asleep somewhere else is something that requires the stealth of a ninja master. Of course every ninja has his nemesis. Mine is the cat. I face Rowy at the top of the stairs. We stare intensely at each other. He watches me as I take the first step, ever so cautiously. At the third step he makes his move. He rushes me, bites my calves and tries to trip me.  
I desperately try to use telepathy to communicate my hatred for him in this moment. When I have maneuvered the steps without dying or waking the child, he decides to stand by his food dish and produce the most pitiful meow he can muster. Bre stirs slightly; I shut him up by making a hissing noise at him. He hisses back.
Walking into her dark room is a danger. There are about 1,000 toys strew about. My ankle gives on a Barbie accessory. I steady myself. As I lift Bre over the bed rail into her bed my furry nemesis reappears. He sneak attacks my feet from under the bed. I grab Rowy and take the slow painful walk out. “Mama?” Bre moans. I hit the floor, taking Rowy with me. We crawl out silently, closing the door behind us. What is that smell? I wonder until I pass Rowy’s litter box. The little ahole had decided to use the most powerful tool in his evil plan.
We look at each other. I feel kind of guilty for ignoring his little accomplishments over the past three years. He learned how to jump on top of the fridge. He learned how to open my closet door and scare the crap out of me in the morning.
He caught a lizard and trapped it in the Christmas tree.

I pat his little furry head and give him some food.
 
 
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