September 30, 2005
Le Chaton Terrible

It is generally unacceptable for a man to be a Cat Person; men are supposed to like dogs, identifying with their slobbery, outdoorsy lifestyle and sloppy, enthusiastic genital-licking. Cats are too effeminate for men, even the male cats, what with all that grooming and the dainty litterbox defecation--it's okay for girls and old men to like cats, but not younger guys like me. But fuck it, dogs are nice and all but I've always liked cats better for some reason. That said, I resisted the idea of getting a pet for a long time, until The Duchess finally realized that a dog was a non-starter for me whereas a cat might just find a way through my gruff, anti-pet armor. After all, I had an adored cat when I was a kid, so it wasn't too surprising that after a few months of futile resistance I gave in to my wife's demand for a kitten, and we adopted Pierre.

Pierre is adorable. And damned annoying.

Pierre is very cute and has a great personality, and has made himself quite at home in our little apartment. Which is to say he has taken command of our little apartment and runs it like a ruthless African despot. He's like Idi Amin, except adorably furry instead of disturbingly sweaty. As a result, my little chaton Pierre has become the number-one obstacle in my life to getting any work done. He has risen to the top of the list of Shit I've Gotta Do, and that's kind of disturbing.

When we first brought Pierre home, he was filled with snot. A frail, wormy scrap of kitten he hid under our bed most of the time and only emerged to blow snot all over the apartment and eat dust bunnies. He was quiet and peaceful, sleeping around the place and occasionally crawling on me and falling asleep on my shoulder or lap. Then, one night, he unexpectedly transformed into a late-night Howler, running around like an insane creature, yawling and jumping and biting my feet as I tried to sleep.

This went on for a few nights: I would go to bed as usual, and Pierre would begin to cause the most ungodly noise known to man, crashing into things, caterwauling, and biting. I tried locking him in the bathroom, but the piteous wailing this produced was too much for gentle soul like me. A little research told me that this was common and coincided with a cat's instinctive urge to hunt in an environment where there was nothing to hunt, but this didn't solve anything. While the idea of breeding rats and bugs in the kitchen simply to amuse my cat appealed to something inside me I think it best to never discuss openly, it wasn't practical. The only suggestion that made sense was to play with the cat before going to bed, to tire him out a little and expend some of that nervous hunting energy.

So, I began a policy of playing with Pierre every night before going to bed.

And it worked. Almost immediately there was a difference: He still made noise from time to time, but for the most part we were again able to sleep at night. The only problem was, and remains, the fact that the little bastard has now become one more goddamn thing I have to do every night. Forty-five minutes every evening before I go to bed, or else he's a little hellion. Forty-five minutes a night over seven nights is over five hours of my life--this cat is sucking me dry.

Some of the more heartless out there probably think less of me because I cater to the cat so much; I should be a little more hard-hearted. The problem with that is twofold: One, if you've ever tried to sleep while a cat howls at the top of its little lungs, you'd know that containment is really not an option, and since cats have no concept of time it's doubtful he'd ever catch on to the fact that his howling got him no reward. Two, I am softhearted soul and I can't help but think that we've taken on responsibility for this little creature and that includes his happiness. If playing with the cat for a few hours every week makes his existence more enjoyable, then I think its our duty to do so--otherwise why bother housing a cat at all?

Of course, there are nights, after a few drinks and a heavy dinner, when I'd rather express mail the cat to Burma than throw the goddamned ball around again. Doesn't make me a bad guy, because I don't actually do it. But I admit there have been evenings when I've suddenly realized I'm standing over Pierre, duct tape in one hand and Fed Ex box in the other, and something mysterious hidden within my small, darkened heart forbids me from actually mailing Pierre off. The cat, through it all, sits placidly, squinting his eyes at me, as if to say I knew you wouldn't do it now get me some tuna.

And even nights when it all works flawlessly it's still a huge gaping hole in my evening. I used to be able to work until I got sleepy, then slink off to bed and hope for the best. Now every night around eleven thirty, Pierre begins prowling around, looking to play, and no matter what I might be up to at my desk I am on the clock from that moment on. I can try to ignore him, but you'd be amazed at the psychological pressure a small furry mammal can bring to bear on you. Absolutely amazed. Not to mention physical weight, as our kitten has bloated preposterously and when he sits on your head you feel it, brother.

Of course, I am the highly advanced shaved ape what rules the planet, and Pierre is a small predator whose mouth and claws are too small to be a threat to me, so I can easily do as I wish and Pierre cannot stop me. Except, of course, that he can, for I am helpless in the face of kittens, especially when they start rolling around the floor, purring. The moral of this story: If you do any sort of work at home, don't adopt a pet unless you're prepared to let it claw huge chunks of your time out of you. In short, prepare to know the tyranny of little things.

Of course, judging by this column, maybe I could easily afford to spend less time working at my desk. Damn your eyes!

Jeff