Tracker the Cat

I don’t recognize myself in the mirror this morning; not a complete oddity. But what in the world caused the short, fresh scratches scattered on three-quarters of my face? Looks like teeth marks on my nose too—little teeth. But what’s really throwing me off is my…

Do you know what a beehive hairdo looks like? Actually, my hair resembles a Christmas tree made from multiple bird nests.

I’m raking through the mess of tangles and s l o w l y returning my hair to a semblance of my hair, and what do I find? One white whisker, two fake guppies, three half pieces of yarn, four minuscule bunches of brown, black and white fur; five milk jug lids, six feathers from a cat toy, seven pieces bordering on the cloth from a pretend mouse filled with catnip, or regurgitated food mixed with cat fur, eight undistinguishable…things, nine chunks from what I suspect was my favorite pair of flip-flops, ten plastic grasshopper legs, eleven chewed crayons, and a green foam ball.

Evidence doesn’t lie.

All I did was put us on a diet. My cat and I started together—he on his limited intake and me on mine. However, in order to save lives, I’m no longer dieting.

My cat seemed content when I went to sleep last night. Well, there was that one, okay two, three incidents right before I switched off the light. He was staring at me and meowing with the tactless sound only a half Siamese cat can make. R-r-r-r-r-yeeeeeeoooowlllll…meeeeowwww-a. Over and over. “No,” I said to him. “No milk, no meat, no chicken, no dry food.” (I tried not to laugh at his response: His eyes shifted from side to side as if he was thinking and then remembering what could possibly change my mind. After he lets out a loud, deep sigh, he turns his back to me and, oh if looks could kill, I’d be six feet under. My feline disappeared into the bathroom to dump the trash can and unwind the toilet paper. All of it.

Maybe I shouldn’t have laughed?

Who knows what will disturb a cat and when? Good thing he wasn’t really upset with me, or he would’ve put a paw over my mouth. The paw on the mouth thing—I believe—is not only when I sing. (After all, my voice sounds nearly professional when the radio is on…loud.)  I’ll have you know, my vocal abilities are no match to his feral yowls during the obscurity of night, or after he’s done playing in the water. No contest for eeriness there.

Tonight, I suspect he’ll attempt to take over my pillow when I’m sleeping to reiterate his point. Yeah, he slumps over maybe half of my favorite, can-only-sleep-with-this-pillow, pillow. Gradually, he pushes against the back of my head with his rear feet, claws extended, and then yawns. To top off the scenario, he then innocently bats his giant green-gold eyes at me when I turn on the light to see what in the world is happening to my head. (Never hurts to double check. He is a cat.)

Oh sure, now he’s curled up on the chair, head hanging off the cushion in one of his “I’m so adorably cute!” poses. Of course, he’s purring too. Ignoring and manipulating are more of his specialties—depending on his mood.

Spitefulness can be matched.

“Gosh, you know what I’ve forgotten?” I ask my above-average-intelligence cat. “The amount of weight the veterinarian said you need to lose. Oh dear, I’ve misplaced the vet’s phone number too. I suppose you will have to remain on your diet indefinitely.”

That got his attention.