Poetry & Blindfolds

 

 

 

 

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One days years ago, I moved in with Tee Nah.  Tee Nah and I had mistakenly fallen for each other and were doomed to realize this slowly over the course of five years.  One minor conflict we had was with cats: I had two, she had two.  Mine dominated in two ways: intellectually and physically.   My cat Johann, the elder, disinterested and superior, could walk anywhere anytime with no skirmish with Tee Nah’s cats.  My younger beast, Anonymous, was Johann’s muscle, and routinely started huge fights with her cats.

 

 

Now, many years later, I found myself less one cat – Johann having kicked the catnip bucket nearly a year ago – and again faced the trauma of combining furniture and animals under one roof.  Anonymous, no longer a henchman, faced this time two cats belonging to The Girlfriend. 

 

 

The battlefield appeared to be vaguely even.  Two cats versus one favored The Girlfriend’s cats.  The fact that she had both of hers declawed favored mine, who had a full compliment.  Plus Anonymous had been in the new apartment for nearly a month.  This, to me, gave him full advantage.  I warned The Girlfriend repeatedly that my cat’s claws would come into play and he would rapidly ascend to dominance.

 

 

On the day the two were introduced to Anonymous, The Girlfriend and I stepped back and held our breath.

 

 

Anonymous went somewhere and hid.

 

 

Like a porn star with erectile dysfunction, I was filled with shame as I watched The Girlfriend’s cats wander their new surroundings with wonder, awe and curiosity, while mine hid under a coffee table.  My mood soured as my personal philosophy, which has always suggested that cats reflect the personality of their owner, nipped at my self-esteem like a parrot with post-traumatic stress disorder.

 

 

Until last Wednesday.

 

 

I walked in the apartment after work.  The place was silent.  In the doorway to the bedroom, there were tufts and tufts and tufts and tufts of cat hair.  But, unlike Anonymous’ sleek grey coat, this hair was all black and white.  My heart lifted.  Could it be??  And there was the ultimate trophy: there, on the wooden floor, a foot from the tufts of hair… blood.  Cat blood.  Dark red cat blood.  And to the right of that… a collar that had been forcibly removed.  And to the right of that… footprints made out of cat blood leading into the closet.

 

 

I looked deep in the closet and found one of The Girlfriend’s cats, hiding and traumatized.  I could only imagine the battle.  Her cat hit mine with the clawless paw; mine hit back, full claws extended.  Surprise!

 

 

I made sure that cat was fine and then sought out Anonymous.  He was on his blanket on the back of my couch, lying contentedly.  I thought of snapping at him, “Bad kitty!  No fight!  Bad kitty!”

 

 

Realizing the Girlfriend wasn’t home yet, I whispered to him, “Goooooood boy…”

 

 

 

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