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.

The Palinode Rocks a Flowered Pashmina and Saves Kittens

Last night, I tweeted the following:



And then I tweeted:



There were some who doubted the veracity of my statements.

Ha! In your face, doubters. Behold the Palinode in all his kitten-saving, be-caped glory:



You know you're doing well when the man you married blossoms into a Do-Me-cape-wearing kitten-saver. I'm so proud.

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.

Creepy Macro Cat Eyes. You're Welcome.

I quite forgot that I had ordered the Easy Macro Cell Lens Band from Photojojo, so when I had to drag myself out of the bathtub not only once for the building maintenance guy to come blast the fire alarms but twice so that the mailman could deliver my surprise package, I felt that at least some good had come from standing around while my fresh-from-the-bath crotch soaked through my jeans in front of relatively strange men.



Of course, my first act with my new toy was to trail my cat, Onion, around with my iPhone hovering no more than an inch from his eye. Just so you know, cats don't like that kind of thing.



So far, two pictures and one really pissed off cat in, I like it.

Onion, on the other hand, has parked himself by the front door and is wailing away in hopes that someone, anyone, will take him away from me.



Luckily, Onion is extra stupid, and, as stupid does, he'll forget this whole thing by the time I find a new way to make his life miserable.

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PS. I used the Retro Camera iPhone app to take these particular photos.

Onion, Thou Art Stalwart

Back in March, Onion was pushing his Wake Up and Love Me campaign, which involved scratching at our bedroom door during the night and early morning hours to get us to please touch him for the love of all things right and good. We pushed back with our We Shoot you In the Face With Water Bottles rebuttal, because we're heartless monsters who take joy in hosing down lovemuffins.

What have we all learned?



We have learned that Onion always wins.



Whether we exit the bedroom at 6 a.m. or at noon, Onion sees it as a direct result of his Wake Up and Love Me campaign.

"Oh, good! I got you up!" he thinks.



If the last six months have taught us anything, it is that Onion is nothing if not infuriatingly stupid persistent.



He is stalwart, even, in the face of our brutal neglect.



Jerk.