I think my cat needs an intervention. I accept that I might be to blame for his problems, that perhaps *I* am the one who got him where he is today, but I really thought we had things under control. I foolishly believed that the serious discussions we’ve had about use and abuse since our journey here in April have made a difference, but mere logic cannot make inroads into chemical dependency. My approach, I realize (too late), has failed him, and now… now I’ve sunk to contributing to his delinquency.
The kitty ‘blue pills’ he came to know and love during the move changed him. Stronger than weed and longer lasting than blow, they’ve left him with wicked flashbacks – occasionally I find him hidden under a tent of fabric somewhere, eyes half closed and surrounded by scraps of poetry. Freedom is Fear, they read. Under bed, gloaming. And my favorite - Dry kibble, dry soul.
The cat has been drug free since April 15th. When four cross country days of opium den solitude did not produce the world class poetry I expected ( see above) and it became clear that he was not going to contribute to the mortgage, I did what any sane and vindictive person would do – I took away his drugs. Once he got over the initial shock, he seemed to be adjusting just fine… but looking back I should have seen signs of what was coming.
He’s become vocal. Very vocal. Every injustice, every hunger pang, every whisper of need is broadcast, full volume. Touching him elicits grumbling. Moving him – the same. Tossing him outside in the morning is a symphony of discontent. In LA he was outside all the time, and he was quiet. Generally friendly, easily pleased, mostly silent and, I’m convinced, a cold blooded murderer. Since we’ve moved he has executed a deft cat about face and now cowers in fear at the back door, vocalizes his almost constant demands and spends evenings and overnights in the house. We’ve got foxes running through the backyard and who knows what else lurking in the bushes, and I’d hate to lose his furry head to a larger animal. The cat I knew in LA could have defended himself, but this one is useless at hunting bugs and needs help getting out of the trees, so he comes in at dusk.
Once he’s in, he’s hungry, and he wants us to know it, cute and burbly at the beginning, transitioning to sulky yowls and deep rumbles when he thinks we are not attending to him quickly enough. Once he’s sated he comes and lies under my feet as I make dinner, randomly swatting at my ankles if I invade his space by getting too close. The speed and accuracy that he used to apply to killing backyard game is now applied to our ankles and lower legs when we annoy him. A few nights ago Mike was ignoring him when he wanted a belly rub, so he ran up, leapt through the air and gutted Mike’s calf. No warning was issued. He didn’t like some cat-unauthorized dancing the other night, and I got a claw in my toe for disobeying his yowl to cease and desist. He finds the Rock Band version of Orange Crush intolerable and lets us know by throwing his body against the door and howling. Occasionally I’ll wake from a dream where I’m being poked in the foot with needles only to find the cat curled around my extremity, teeth and claws bared.
He looks sweet and innocent, but many a houseguest has made the mistake of rubbing the white belly he exposes so charmingly. He’ll walk up close, burble and drop to the ground, rolling from his side to his back with his little white booted feet flopping in the air. He’ll close his eyes half way and begin to purr. This is a trick, a crocodile tear. Go ahead, rub his stomach. He’s so cute. He’s so friendly. He’s so ATTACHED TO YOUR HAND AND ARM WITH CLAWS. It happens fast. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I should have seen the vocalization and the aggression for the signs of an addict that they were, I really should have. But I figured we were out of the woods with the drug problem, really, I did, until I walked into the kitchen the other night and saw this:
That cooler is full of the cat’s new drug of choice. Not fish. Not cheese or milk or even chicken. Not chocolate or fruit or bread or pumpkin pie. No, the cat has discovered a deep and abiding love for hazelnut coffee beans. He sniffed from across the room like a hound dog on the scent and was there like a shot. He rubbed his head and climbed inside and purred and burbled and made sweet kitty love to that coffee. The room and all his cares slipped away as he and the coffee shared a deep and meaningful connection that must have brought back the memories and sensations of his cross country opium den. Oblivious to the world, even our hysterical laughter as we caught the whole thing on camera didn’t deter him.
I know that drugs for cats are bad. I know that I should encourage poor little GatoPlex to resist the strength of his urges, that I should help him through this time of temptation. I know that my role should not be that of an enabler, but I just. can’t. help. myself. I’m tired of a crabby attack cat, and I have to wonder if his crusty behavior of late might just be withdrawal? Would steady application of coffee, this new wonder drug, make him into a nicer cat? In for a dime, in for a dollar, we went to Kroger and bought him coffee of his own. Last night we put some beans in a sock and dropped the bundle of love into the cat bed we’re trying to teach him to use. Kitty ecstasy followed, and I did not wake with needles in my ankle. Progress? Or spiral into iniquity? Only time will tell.
