Pilling the Cat or, ‘When Humans Go Mad’

Me and my human? We’re the best of friends. Even when she irrationally interferes with my desire to lie on her computer keyboard, I purr fondly at her and resign myself to lying on her elbow so she can continue her obsessive tapping. I curl up on her head on cold nights, or nestle under the covers beside her.

I even occasionally roll on my back so she can rub my tummy, when the mood takes me.

When she calls, I often – because I want to, of course – dash across the lawn with the dog to come inside.

She clearly appreciates my favoring her in this way. She opens the doors quickly, then waits while I determine if I actually wanted to go out or not. If I hesitate at mealtimes, she lifts me onto the dryer so I don’t have to jump up to get my food. She drags toy mice across the floor for my entertainment when the weather outdoors is inconvenient, and provides fresh grass and/or catnip at regular intervals. She strokes my fur and touches noses with an almost catlike grace. She not only coils herself around me in bed (despite the limitations of her anatomy) – she also rearranges sleeping family members to accommodate me whenever necessary.

Yet, tragically, she is prone to fits of felinicidal madness.

Periodically, with no warning, she will come up to me, cooing and offering treats in a normal fashion, when suddenly—

She grabs me! She pries my jaws open with one hand! She attempts to thrust some dreadful poison down my throat with the other!

Omigod. It’s happening again!

Naturally, I fight for my bodily integrity with every tooth and claw at my disposal. (The arsenal, as you can imagine, is impressive.) I am disadvantaged by cats’ constitutional inability to gag things up once past a certain point. Fortunately, my constitution has thus far enabled me to fight off any lasting deleterious effects.

And my human’s spells pass quickly. (I suspect there is some healing property to cat saliva or claws.) Probably stunned and in shock, she generally retreats to the bathroom. I give myself a wash to recover my equanimity. When she emerges, swathed in Band-Aids and gauze, I forgive her.

How can I help it? I know she was not herself. She must feel just terrible about it.

I suspect this is one of the tragedies somehow related to humans’ overly large heads. I notice after one of these incidents, my human often appears troubled, rubbing her forehead and making incoherent sounds, such as, “You idiotic nitwit, what do you think I’m trying to do? Poison you?”

I pay no attention, of course. It is just part of the recovery process.

I rub on her ankles consolingly, and allow her to feed me a few extra tidbits, to let her know all is well.

Until the next time the fit takes her …

 

~by Sinbad, courtesy of Virginia Herrick

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