If Cats Are the Devil, I Must Be a Demon.

I’ve never been particularly fond of cats, with the general opinion that if Satan had been female, his earthly form would’ve been the feline instead of the reptile. (Every time I see a cat, I automatically assume it is female, as if they have no need for males and reproduce by their own demonic powers.)

I had the pleasure of house sitting for a couple the past week and a half, with every luxury I could imagine, and only one pitfall: they owned two cats, both male. Oscar, the larger gray and white one and Boo, the brown and cream colored one with eyes like Puss ‘n Boots from Shrek.

While Oscar pranced around acting like he’d won the nomination, Boo shed cat hair, peed on the floor, and mewed at me while I read. I’d go into the bathroom to get ready for bed and come out fifteen minutes later to find him sitting outside the door, eyes glinting. I swear he was willing voodoo, perhaps in retribution for my accidently closing him in the closet for three hours.

As the week wore on, Boo’s meowing became more persistent and he would hardly leave me alone. The owner said if he did that, it usually meant he was hungry, but I was very punctual about feeding them Captain’s Choice Tuna. One evening I cracked the lid and Oscar came running, followed by Boo. After emptying the fishy can, I went into the bathroom next to the laundry room to brush my teeth. In the mirror, I saw Boo’s reflection in the hall. I had a nagging suspicion about why the cat watched and meowed.

Spitting the toothpaste out, I went into the laundry room and shooed Oscar away from the dish. Sure enough, the minute he passed Boo, the younger cat fled down the stairs. The poor cat had been starving all week because he was afraid of Oscar, who was feasting on all the tuna. After that I had to stand guard at the bottom of stairs so Boo could eat in peace.

Oscar paced back and forth in front of me, and then, seeing no way to pass me, fluffed up his fur and nuzzled against me. Now you kiss up to me, you little…When he didn’t succeed, he proceed to try to slip under my leg or hop over my foot, and then sat glaring at me. I felt deliciously manipulative at that point. Now how do you like it...

It wasn’t until the second to last night that Boo and I finally began to warm up to each other. I was tucked in bed with my laptop when he hopped up and curled next to me. He made this purring sound deep in his throat like a trolling motor, stroking his sandpapery tongue across my arm. I closed the door in an effort to keep him on the bed, but he panicked and leapt off, shrinking into the corner, mewing. He wouldn’t let me touch him. When I let him out, he streaked beneath a piece of furniture and wouldn’t be coaxed out. He gave this pitiful sound halfway between a mew and a honking chick, unmistakably crying. I knew if he had trusted me before, he didn't now.

It struck me that if cats are the devil, I must be a demon. I am just like Boo. Supply me with emotional and psychological nourishment when I'm hungry and then leave me to my solitude, pet me when I'm feeling luxurious because I am bigger and older and fluffier and more deserving than every other cat, and what on earth made you think I was going to do the same thing for you?? 

And then there are the innumerable times when someone tries to win my trust. Shows me what it feels like to have a friend and be loved. For a moment I am relaxed. And then the safe room suddenly looks like a trap I can't escape. So I wait for the first crack in the door to bolt and cower beneath a roof of excuses and fears, indistinguishable from a cat’s crying.