Max, The Smoking Kitten

I used to have this cat named Max.

Well, actually, I used to have a cat named Max, and then I had another cat named Max later. Both were solid grey, both were cute as hell, and both were the most evil pets I have ever encountered. Imagine that cute little kitty pictured down below, only also imagine that once you pick him up he will decide that your eyes are tasty, tasty human sushi.


photo credit: AlanH20

So, I had this little kitten Max, the first kitten in this line of two evil Maxes, and he was, as I said, evil, but he was tiny, so the evil was easy to pass off as kittenish tomfoolery most of the time. When he dropped from the tops of doors onto your head to swing his claws into your eyes, you could knock the quarter-pounder onto the bed. When he crawled under the covers repeatedly at night to tear at your nipples, you could duct tape him into an upside down laundry basket prison until morning. There were ways and means to deal with his itty bitty ferocity at first.

The problem with evil kittens, though, is that they eat, and then they grow, and their once goofy ferocity starts to become hie-thee-to-an-exorcist ferocity.

He took to launching himself at guests' crotches, especially if they were men, to rip at their tender balls. He leapt and then clung to women's hair to steady himself for blows to the ladies' faces. If you didn't share your food with him, he hurled himself repeatedly at your hands and arms like an enraged African killer bee. He was a fuzzy wuzzy widdle kewtie pie with the brain of a tasmanian devil.

So, here's where the story takes an uncomfortable turn.

I smoked at the time. I was unemployed, more than a little aimless, and didn't have cable, so I entertained myself by watching crappy fishing shows in the afternoons on one of our three available tv channels and smoking cigarettes.

As kittens are wont to do, Max was curious about the cigarettes and wanted to sniff the one I was smoking, so when he marched up onto my shoulder one day, I let him sniff it. I figured that he would hate it and back off. You know, like he'd learn a lesson about not sniffing cigarettes.

I was wrong.

Max leaned into the filter, pressed his nose firmly against it, and inhaled as deeply as he could. It was kind of horrifying to watch, but it was fascinating, too, because he did it like he'd always done it. He looked like a smoker having his first delicious cigarette after an involuntary stretch without, and, when he was done, he bounced away, as though this was the most normal thing in the world. I foolishly thought that that would be that, though, because surely this kind of strange performance could not be repeated. He couldn't have actually liked it, could he?

I was wrong again.

I lit a cigarette the next day and sat down to watch some fisherman net this huge trout or catfish or whatever, and Max trotted up onto my shoulder and tried to reach out for my cigarette when I took a drag. I batted his paw away. He reached out for my cigarette again. I batted his paw away again.

Max, not one to back down, launched himself into my cheek with his teeth, gripping me around my nose and the back of my head with his claws. He snarled and thrashed, but I couldn't just tear him off without both dropping the cigarette and further tearing my face with his claws, so I held the cigarette up to my shoulder to appease him. This was time for self-preservation, not ethics. Max let go, leaned up against my neck in a display of momentary affection, pressed his nose into the filter, and inhaled. When he was done, he bounced off my shoulder like he wasn't some kind of demon, and I just sat there in shock.

My kitten was a smoker, and I was going to hell.

Max showed no signs of becoming any more tame, and his violent behaviour only got worse and more pointedly abusive. The situation got to the point where, if only one person was home, Max had to be locked up in a room by himself, because he would stalk mercilessly with the intent to kill. I came home one night after having coffee with friends to find my roommate crying on her bed. She had two layers of thick blankets tucked in underneath her and the rest pulled up around her head. I could only see her eyes. They were streaked with wet mascara. She was shaking.

"What the hell is happening?" I asked.

"It's Max," she said, jerking her head toward the end of her bed.

There he was, vibrating with madness, pupils blown out so big that his eyes looked like black marbles.

"He's been launching himself at my face for two hours," she said. "Look." She uncovered her hands to show me her bloody fingers.

It was time for Max to go.

I called my mother in the morning to come pick up the cat and me for a trip to the humane society. This cat was going to die, but as much as I wanted to kill the little beast myself as reparation the last three months of injury, paranoia, and sleeplessness, I just couldn't do it. I was actually too afraid of him to try anything.

While we waited for my mother, Max and I shared a last cigarette. It was the only thing we ever did that didn't result in tears and duct-taped laundry baskets, and it was also the only thing that seemed to turn him into a temporarily normal cat, so it was fitting as a last goodbye. We needed some cat sanity if we were going to contain him in a vehicle without the use of a taser. Also, what's the harm in smoking when you're just going to death row, anyway?

He went gentle on me and only gave me a few scratches for bogarting the smoke. It was like he knew it was our last few minutes together.

When my mother arrived, she picked Max up and said, "Why are you getting rid of this little guy? He's so cu..."

Her voice hitched in her throat as he sunk his teeth into the meat of her hand between her thumb and forefinger.

"I hope they gas him," she said.

"Me, too," I said. "Me, too."

Feeling Reflective and Twee? Yeah, Me Neither.

The Palinode and I took a trip out of town to see family and old friends last weekend.


If you're in Saskatoon, go to Turning the Tide Bookstore. They carry consciousness-raising literature, and you'll care about stuff more afterwards.

I had no time whatsoever to be stepping away from my computer, but I'd been working 12- to 15-hour days for weeks running with no weekends jambed in there to bookend the stress, so I didn't really have a choice. I value my sanity at least as far as it can keep me out of the poorhouse.

My eyes needed a break, too. Spending that many hours staring at a computer screen does a number on the retinas. Everything had taken on that sparkly, migraine aura, disco ball effect, which normally only happens prior to a migraine or when one is on psychedelic drugs. I was just half-blind and unable to read.



Things I Am Terrible At

1. Saying no
2. Knowing when to stop working and start playing
3. Valuing this meat suit that lets me walk around and do the stuff I like

Things I Am Really Good At

1. Making things, such as these silly dolls
2. Creating the space I need if the right one doesn't already exist for me
3. Staying sober

I let myself go enough over the weekend that I even forgot to take photos, which is pretty much a reflex for me at this point. I was surprised at the end of the weekend to find that I had taken only one photo since my panic-avoidance self-portrait in the back of a car at the beginning of the trip.



I keep saying over and over in different ways that I want to make a daily practice of letting go, and then I get busy trying to make the whole world happier and forget to eat my next three meals, lose myself to anxiety dreams, and start my old pattern of beating myself up for not doing all the things all over again.



I can see it clearly, though, now, and pattern recognition is 90% of this part of the struggle.



Clearly, I'm feeling reflective. It's annoying the hell out of me.

And just like that, Oskar snaps me out of it. He whines all the time all over the place, because he's an anxious monster just like me. I tell him to shut up, but he never does. Instead of shutting up, he just tries to whine more quietly, which makes his voice thin and wavering. He sounds like a tenor whining balloon crossed with an 80-year-old lady in church choir.

I need to find my bootstraps and pull myself up by them.



I keep learning things from my stupid cats.

I'm going to write a book called Things I Learned from My Cats, and then I'm going to punch myself in the throat for being twee.

Finis.

What My Cat Taught Me: Perceived Aggression and the Power of a Gentle Touch

Cat two of three, Onion, is a bigger cat who galumphs around the apartment on heavy feet with a loud yowl, so it's easy for me to forget that he responds best to a gentle hand.



I tend to give him rougher affection and speak to him in a louder voice to match the size of his presence, but that is thoughtless. It's a reflex.

He doesn't know how big and galumphy he is, and he finds it confusing to be met with such volume. When I touch him lightly and speak to him in a soft voice, though, he leans into me with a genuine affection that he can't show me when half his energy is being spent reacting to my assault.

It is often this way with people, too. When I am faced with someone who I perceive as being larger physically or energetically, my instinct is to react with at least the same level of perceived aggression, if not more. I am learning, though, to pause for a moment, breathe, and move more gently if the situation allows. It gives me time to think, and it gives them the space to communicate with me without having to fight against my bluster.

A gentler hand makes room for both us to be who we are beyond the volume of our reactions to each other.

Thank you, Onion. You are one smart kitty cat.

Creepy Catsitters R Me

The Palinode and I have been taking care of a friend's slightly older cat, Sadie, over the last little while, and this is where I dive right into convincing said friend that I am the creepiest catsitter she's ever had.



Not to put too fine a point on it, I have a thing for this kitten.



We drop in about once a day and sit with Sadie for twenty minutes, and she spends the entire time purring and head butting us and trying to convince me that it's time for me to give her treats.



I think the thing that's won me over is just how very normal she is. Our three cats constantly chatter, chase each other, fight, jump into the cupboards, get their heads caught in the handles of bags, and steal things out of my purse.

They are happy and healthy and very affectionate, too, but they are complete jerks. The inmates are running the asylum over here.



The thing is even Sadie's poop is cuter than my cats' poop. I scooped her litter box and couldn't help but wonder if the Palinode and I have been cursed to founder under unreasonable piles of scat for some reason.



As I lay on the floor and let Sadie clean my hair this afternoon, I reflected on how I followed her all over the apartment on my hands and knees and how I fantasized a little about switching her out with our neurotic boy Oskar and how weirdly nostalgic I felt about our short visits now that they are coming to an end, and I wondered Am I turning into that creepy cat person who always smells like ammonia? Would I one day spin their fur into yarn to knit little kitty booties for them? Would I make them personalized onesies like they were my babies?

Okay, so I have actually done that last one, but I did it to teach. It was an act of giving.



I realized, though, that I am not in danger of such a thing. I do have my toe just edged over the threshold into the house of cat obsession, but I am diametrically opposed to bedazzled cat sweatshirts and owning any more than the three cats I already have. There are only so many animals I will allow to poo openly inside my home at any given time.

I also realized that my rabble might mellow into a herd of Sadies one day once they work the relative youth out of their systems. In all likelihood, my cats will probably still be jerks at fifteen, but at least hanging out with Sadie gives me something to hang onto.



And, with that, Sadie's person might now be very relieved to get her keys back from me tomorrow.

Need a creepy blogger to take care of your pet and document her unreasonable attachments? I'm your man.

Thank God for Pushy Co-Workers; Otherwise, I'd Never Eat.

My co-worker insists that I must eat both breakfast and lunch.



He's really pushy about the matter, too. He claims that I never listen.



In fact, he won't let me type sometimes until I've eaten something.



I think he just wants the opportunity to pilfer some of my buttered toast, but he claims that this all stems from his deep and abiding love for me.

Whatever his reasons, the jerk manages to keep me fed, so I guess I'll keep scooping his litter.