Don't M#@$ With Cats

I work from home. A lot of people work from home, but I bet they don’t have nine cats. I didn’t want to have nine cats, and anyway, when you think of felines and that number, you usually think they have nine lives. So nine times nine equals eighty-one. I shudder to think there might be eighty-one lives swarming around my house, but that seems to be what I’ve got. People say when you have a lot of something that you’re a hoarder, or need to get rid of some of the excess, or maybe just accept the fact that you’re a bit mad. Hey, I’ve known people who had a dozen cats or five dogs. One dog is equal to two cats, too. So there. I am completely normal. (For now.)

I was going to talk about my work, but got distracted by the cats. It’s important to know I volunteer for a feline rescue and that means not turning strays away. We help people in need, so why not cats and other animals? I think the street kitties know there’s a cathouse at my address. At least I won’t foster any more, because once they come in the door, they stay. It’s like people having a lot of kids. They don’t just kick the babies to the curb, right?

I work from home because I can’t afford a studio right now. The result is it gets crowded when I’m sitting at my desk proofreading or editing. The same thing happens when I lie on the bed to read or when I’m lounging on the couch preparing a review of a book, film, or play for the journal that employs me. The job is incredible. If I wanted, I could lie around all day in the proverbial pajamas, drinking wine, staying up into the wee small hours of the morning if the spirit moves me. Which it sometimes does. 

I could do all of the above, and might try it sometime, but not now. Not now, because nine cats and their aggregate eighty-one lives think differently and I am outnumbered. Waaayyy outnumbered. It is not true that cats are indifferent to humans, not true at all. At least my nine aren’t. If I decide the couch is a good place to work, one perches on a pillow behind my head and inches a paw down my clavicle. Another wedges in between my side and the back of the couch, sometimes slithering up onto my belly so the laptop screen is no longer accessible to me. When that one, who’s ginger-colored and a whiner, jumps down, the muted tortie takes his place. She’s a bit smaller, but slightly rounder. She also likes to snuggle and her gray-beige circle is a real comfort. She’s not a bother unless I’m trying to use my iPad in bed, lying on my left side so I can type with my right hand. There might be something a bit catlike about that position, but I like it for winding down after a day of work in place. The tortie likes to do her curling up in a ball right in front of the iPad screen and so I often just give up and play mah jong or solitaire, because a cat in your face really tests your ability to concentrate. It can also cause sneezing or, at the least, an itchy face (even without allergies).

Sometimes a writer or editor or reviewer needs to get up for a drink or food. That means going to the kitchen. Kitchen, in my world, means something special to my nine, my herd. They hear my steps and even if lounging on the foot of my bed, will come running. Just in case the items I’m getting ready include food for them. Suddenly, three, four, or seven furry beings are stationed primly at a bowl, pleading for me to rescue them from starvation. I know this is fake, but think just maybe somebody really is starving and deserves food. (Have I mentioned how much I spend on these folks’ maintenance? You don’t want to know and I try not to think about it.) Anyway, I’m a sucker for their sad, beautiful eyes and drop a few morsels into some of their dishes. After gobbling the food up, famished felines that they are, I discover that somebody has obviously been lying to me and proceeds to vomit on floor, rug, or elsewhere. That requires a rush to the paper towels and a gagging response, and maybe I’m not so hungry after all, not for a little while.

Back to couch or desk to continue with whatever writing or reading is required for the next deadline. (There are always deadlines in my line of work.) I do love my job, though, as noted. The problem is that my cats think I work for them. However, they don’t pay me anything and I need a salary if I’m going to continue to live here. I really need a bigger place, I think sometimes, so these animals could spread out and not be on top of me, up in my business all the time.

What am I thinking? There’s a much-repeated phrase in recent political history: “Where we go one we go all.” Short version: WWG1WGA. Maybe it’s from a film script. I think my cats wrote it. They even like to do some weaving to show me how clever they are. By weaving, I mean going in and out, around my feet while I’m moving around the house. They use invisible strings to trip me up, probably for their own amusement, to see how hard I can fall and what language I’ll blurt out. That’s cheating, I believe. It also has resulted in a few minor bruises.

When I get really engrossed in an assignment, I can forget there’s a horde of felines around me and don’t keep track of them as well. That can lead to complications. For example, somebody is curled up somewhere along the outline of my body, usually from waist to feet, and I forget who’s there or even that there is a cat in alignment with me. After all, it seems like somebody is always joined at the hip with me. So I lose track, which is when bad things can happen. The resident Alpha Coward becomes needy and descends on me from a shelf or pillow behind my head, but he lands directly on top of his mortal enemy, who is also ginger-furred, but smaller and with long hair, so I never confuse them. Have you ever seen World War III, cat-style? 

I am not one to make light of war, not in the least, but two furious gingers make you wish you could choose a different battleground to be in. If I forget and try to defend myself or - horrors! - to separate them, the real weapons come out and - no exaggeration, none at all - I emerge bloodied. I have to run to the bathroom to let the blood drain off one hand or arm while digging in a drawer to find a band-aid and disinfectant. There’s certainly the danger of a bad infection from an injury inflected by a cat. It is an accident that somebody claws me so badly. No reason to get upset, but there is the very real concern that I might need to start taking antibiotics.

Have I said I love working from home and have the perfect job? If I haven’t, I should have. If I already have, then I’m repeating it because it’s the truth. Besides loving my work, which is really about words, not cats, I’m a loner. Yeah, right, you say. A loner who lives with nine cats. What’s up with that? Well, I am. Cats don’t argue with you, don’t cheat on you, don’t pull a real gun on you (just their claws). You can hold a conversation with them on your own terms, about any topic, and they’ll purr back or yowl for food. (Actually, my oldest, who’s eighteen, purrs and cackles. She sounds like an unoiled door hinge or maybe a chicken, but never would you hear her behind a door and think she was a cat. She can cackle or creak with quite a bitchy tone, too.) She’s no worse than a pain-in-the-ass coworker, don’t forget.

I don’t really know what else to tell you about working from home when you are the only human in a place where ten individuals reside. Maybe I should have taught my cats to be more indifferent, to fit the stereotype. Maybe they should all be declawed. (Don’t be horrified. That is cruel and painful. I would never ever do that to mine.) Maybe there is a solution to how hard it is to work from home when you’ve got cats for company and you do need to go to the kitchen sometimes or you’re trying to sleep while hoping you don’t roll over on the smallest one, the tripod who got a rough start in life who likes to fit herself to your back.

Here are my solutions: 

1. Get a babysitter for the Gang of Nine.
2. Sell off some of their lives so there’s more room to spread out. (No fur babies would be harmed in the process, I can assure you.)
3. Find a different job, in an office. 

If you think of a better one, let me know, please.