Kit for Cat

Let me tell you about Linus. Came in here like he ran the place on day one—started playing with my kids, snuggling with my wife. Even Lucy (our six-year-old terrier mix) connected with him, all while I endured months of him berating me verbally every day while they were away.

Of course, my allergies didn’t help, but it wasn’t all that. He took the spotlight from me. I’m the head of this household. Dad. Paterfamilias. And he was just a sad looking runt from the city who needed a new home. Thanks to the twisted fates of the universe, it had to be our home.

The kids begged for years to get a cat. I used all kinds of excuses to put it off, but in reality it was the allergies. I’m allergic to dogs and cats. Pretty bad, too. Watery itchy eyes, runny nose, trouble breathing sometimes. It took me six years to get used to Lucy around the house, thanks to trial and error with all sorts of allergy meds, and now they want to add a cat to the mix? Were they trying to kill me slowly and painfully, one speck of dander at a time? I can just see my head blowing up from the hives.

“I grew up with multiple pets,” she would say. “It teaches responsibility.”

“They’ve had hamsters, a fish, and rabbits, and they’re all dead,” I replied.

“They don’t live long.”

“Especially when they let their four-year-old cousin shake them to death.”

“That was just the one hamster.”

“Why does have to be a cat? Why not a turtle or a snake or…”

“Yuck. I hate reptiles.”

When my wife suggested keeping the cat locked out of my office during the day and my bedroom at night—while also promising that I wouldn’t have to scoop litter—I was persuaded. Of course, I had also grown beyond tired of the begging (from the kids and my wife).

Not wanting to be the bad guy, I did my due diligence and recommended finding a feline from a shelter. Plenty of barnyard pets and city castaways need a home, after all. I found a website for a highly recommended woman who rescues them from the streets, boards them for a while to get the feral out of them, then lists them on her website. The kids loved this one little guy in particular, and I’ll admit he was kind of cute. Mostly orange with little patches of white. Small in size, too, so maybe easier on the allergies, I thought.

The rescue lady brought him over in his crate one night after dinner and set him in the middle of the living room floor. He sniffed the air, taking things in.

“It helps them get accustomed to your scent without fear of leaving his shelter,” she said.

At first, he did seem chill. Didn’t shake with nerves or meow too much. Didn’t even hiss. She opened the door of his crate and Lucy went up to him slowly. They sniffed one another and he started to come out slowly. Then he batted her in the face and took off. As they began the chase through the house, I leaped into action.

“They’re only playing,” the rescue lady said as she put a hand out to stop me from playing referee. “Let them get some energy out.”

It didn’t look like playing, more like a hunt for live meat. But she was right. They were back in the living room and playfully wrestling in no time. When he’d had enough, he jumped to a high table and sat in front of the lamp, glaring down at Lucy. In turn, Lucy sat in submission.

“Can we keep him?” the kids shouted.

My wife gave me a look that asked the same question. My guts turned for a second, a twisted warning I mistook for butterflies.

“I suppose. But only if he stays out of my office and our bedroom.”

A few nods and fist pumps and they were on top of him, petting him and cooing him.

“Let’s call him Loki,” said my youngest son, who was really into Marvel.

“That’s lame,” said my oldest. “What about Jalen?”

“The quarterback?”

“I don’t like it,” said my wife. “What about Linus?”

“Linus and Lucy,” I chirped. “That’s fun.”

We all agreed his name would be Linus. Let the celebration begin. They finally got their way and we own a damn cat, I thought.

It didn’t take long for the trouble to begin. Next day, matter of fact. You see, I happily work from home and have been doing so for over ten years. My wife and kids are out of the house most of the day, leaving me to the peace and quiet of my perfectly appointed space from 7:30 in the morning until 3:25 in the afternoon. And wouldn’t you know that on his very first day living here, he goes and breaks the number one rule—stay out of my office and our bedroom. He strolls into my office and lays down his law.

“Let’s get right to the point. I know you don’t like me and I’m not allowed in here, but I don't care.”

I nearly jumped out of my chair and leaped through the bay window beside my desk. At the very least, I was on my feet in a heartbeat.

“What did you just say?”

“I get it,” Linus said as he continued toward me. “You’ve got allergies. But that’s not it, is it?”

“Am I talking to a cat?” I muttered to myself.

“No, that’s not the problem,” he continued. “You have control issues. You need to be king of the castle. Well not anymore, pal. I’m a cat and I go where I want when I want. That’s the new rule.”

I must be dreaming, I thought. There are no talking animals in real life. This only happens in books and movies. 

“Now, I know ways that will make your life miserable. Test me, and I won’t hesitate—set too many boundaries, pet me the wrong way, don’t pet me when I ask—and you’ve got it coming to you. I’ve got a whole bag of tricks up my sleeve.”

He turned, flipped his tale at me, and headed for the door.

“Oh, and remember my best weapon,” he said, turning back. “Tell anyone you talked to a cat and you’ll end up in the asylum. Trust me—you wouldn’t be the first.”

He meowed a cunning meow and carried on his way.

“Have a nice day at work,” he tossed over his shoulder.

After a five minute sneezing fit, I spent the rest of the day with the door locked and my thoughts set on how to deal with this pest. I never wanted a cat. Took three years to convince me. And now we end up with a talking monster who wants to own me?

I thought about telling my wife. Just her and no one else. But Linus was right—all conversations I conjured up in my head led to me in a padded room.

I thought about taking him back to the rescue lady and telling her things didn’t work out then scramble to find a lookalike. Wouldn’t be convincing. I considered sneaking up behind him, bagging him up, then carrying him to the middle of the woods and throwing him in a hole. Too morbid.

After I got over the initial shock of the situation—which took five hours, an ice pack on my head while I laid in bed, and possibly one too many pills from the medicine cabinet—I decided I’d have to sit on it a day and see how things panned out.

The trouble began that night when he insisted on trying to get into our bedroom. My wife thought it was so adorable how he kept nudging his way back inside after she rushed him to the hallway. She had a good laugh when she carried him to the kids’ room and quick ran back to ours and shut the door; he started pawing under the door to get in. And while she’s over there laughing and thinking it’s cute, I was sweating bullets thinking about how this runt would try and cut my throat in the middle of the night with one of those claws.

Thankfully, he settled down and didn’t mind sleeping with the kids (especially since Lucy hogs our bed anyway). 

Surprisingly all went well for the first week. We kept to ourselves during the day. Plus, he slept most the time so I rarely saw him except for passing him on the way to the fridge or the bathroom.

“Sup, loser,” he would say. I never replied. What’s the sense of arguing with a cat? Nasty little shite, I thought.

The kids enjoyed tossing around his toys and petting him. When Lucy got the zoomies, she’d chase him around the house for a few minutes every couple of hours. By the end of another long day, he was comfortably curled up on my wife’s lap blanket and I was popping another 24-hour Claritin D (my third one of the day) and shooting two more blasts of Flonase up my nostrils.

Didn’t take long for him to get bored with his daily routine. Even though I kept my office door closed and locked, he would sit outside blabbering nonsense at me. Called me all sorts of names. Said I was a wimp for being allergic to him. It went on like this for months. He just picked at me. Pick pick pick. There would be spurts that he’d leave me be, but when he was having a bad day…claws out! I had so many scratches on my leg at one point it looked like I was tossed through a field of thorns. He made me lie and tell the family that he and I played too rough in the afternoon—and that I loved it.

It all came to a head one day in the most unexpected way. It was early morning around three. Being the light sleeper that I am, I woke to the sounds of something wailing outside our bedroom window. Sounded like a bark or a cackle. Sort of a yipping noise. Was it a dog? A bird? Maybe a coyote? Not in our area. I had to go look.

I snuck out of the bedroom and down the hallway trying not to awaken anyone (especially Linus, who was usually fast asleep on my youngest son's feet).

I followed the noise to the back of the house, flipped the light on, and looked around the illuminated yard. Nothing out of the ordinary. I unlocked the door and stepped outside. Through the darkness, I could only see the glimmer of street lights in the distance clouded by my breath. I meandered and carefully inspected my surroundings until I froze in the middle of the yard.

There it was, facing me like a demon in the night. A red fox. Not scary, I know. I’d seen him many times before, trotting around the neighborhood crossing from one yard to the next. But they are not typically a threat to humans. This guy, however, looked ready to rip someone apart. Foaming at the mouth, I knew right away this once harmless kit had become rabid.

“Easy fella,” I said, having become accustomed to talking to an animal. The fox didn’t respond, obviously—or is it, maybe I have special powers—and took a few more steps toward me. I looked around for a weapon. A stick or a pole. Something I could swing at him to chase him off. I was defenseless and he knew it. He kept coming, boxing me in.

He sprinted at me and all I could think to do was dive and roll out of his path. When I got to my knees and turned, he was coming back for me. I knew I wouldn’t get to my feet in time and braced for the foaming teeth to chomp into me, hoping he went for an arm and not my face.

My eyes closed tight, ready for impact, when I heard a yelp.

“Away!”

It was Linus. I opened my eyes to an unusual scene. Like two MMA fighters circling the ring, he was readying to attack the fox, all the hairs on his back standing five inches high.

“Linus?” I squeaked.

“I got your back,” he replied, fully focused on the fox. “You go away. Now.”

The fox yipped. Linus hissed. It went on like this for a while (though it was probably mere seconds) when the fox suddenly took off toward Linus. Do you know what that cat did? In a blur of white and orange, he leaped three feet into the air and landed, claws out, right on that fox's snout. His claws dug in as he bit into the bridge of its nose, then jumped off and landed softly on the grass, poised for another attack. But it wouldn't come to fruition.

So taken by the blow, the fox rolled onto its side with a wild yap. It got to its feet slowly, looked to Linus (who was at the ready), then tucked its tail between its legs and trotted away.

“You ok?” he asked, letting the hair on his back relax.

“I am. You?”

“Just fine. Foxes are cowards, you know. Just noisy.”

“That one had rabies.”

“All the same.”

I shook my head in amazement. What a cat! Everything I thought about him changed for me that night. He saved me from what could have been a nasty attack. 

From that night on, we have had some of the most interesting (albeit one-sided) conversations during the day. He apologized for being such a jerk and I told him I was sorry for not being more understanding.

Linus is now allowed in the bedroom and my office whenever he wants—and I am on a heavy regimen of allergy meds until the allergy shots start to kick in.