An Open Letter to My Cat

Dear  TC:

I'm writing you this letter to bring up some concerns I have with your behavior.  I would simply talk to you in person, but your attention span when I talk is 43 seconds, and that only when I'm holding your food bowl hostage.  I don't really understand why this is so, since you can spend hours glued to one spot with your attention riveted on a mouse hole, a bird feeder, or a spot in the air that contains nothing at all.  But for me - 43 seconds.  So I am writing this letter, which I will read to you in 43-second segments while holding your food bowl.  

About that food bowl.  You wait at the foot of the steps for me  until I arrive with your food, then you sit in the exact spot that I am going to place the bowl.  And you sit.  And you stare at me.  I stare back.  You know that's where the food bowl goes, because that's where I put it the last 473 times I brought it out.  I know that you know this, because after a sufficiently long exchange of stares, you always move about 2 feet, turn around, and stare at the spot where you were sitting until I place the bowl there.  You could save  us both some time and trouble if you just took up position #2 from the get-go.  But no.  Perhaps you think you will win the staring contest and I will be forced to place the bowl somewhere else.  Sorry, but that's just not going to happen.    Remember when I installed the cat door?  You tried very hard never to be caught using the door, because you much preferred that I open the Big Door for you every time you wanted in or out.  I picked a freezing day with wind to simply sit on the steps inside and wait for you to come through the cat door.  After sitting outside mewling for about 5 minutes, you came through the door, gave me a glare, then stalked off to get into your heated cat bed.  I'm not going to open doors for you when you have your own door, and I'm not going to find a new place for the food bowl when there is one already there.  Deal with it.

And about the cat door.  No, I do not believe that the odd assortment of birds, chipmunks, half-dead rats and headless mice found their way through the cat door on their own, nor did they magically materialize inside.   Your wide-eyed look of innocence notwithstanding, I think they had help getting in.   You know they are not supposed to be inside.  I know you know this, because you skedaddle (or scatdaddle) through the cat door whenever I spot a bird perched on the overhead rack or step on a headless mouse.  Why the heck can't you just leave them outside?

Then when I head out for a morning stroll around the farm, you insist on going with me.  I would have no problem with that if you were actually with me or following me.  But no - you insist on being in front of me, even when you don't actually know where I am going, and even when I repeatedly forget to watch my feet and trip over you as you stop to stare into space for 5 minutes.  Since you don't actually know which way I am going, you have to take surreptitious little peeks backward every now and then to adjust course. ( Thought I didn't notice, did you?  Hah! ) Occasionally, you get too far ahead and fail to notice that I have turned in another direction, which leaves you behind me.  Do you simply hurry to catch up like any normal creature?  No!  You insist on barreling at breakneck speed between my feet to get ahead again.  And I don't use the term "breakneck " lightly, since this has resulted more than once in causing me to lose my balance.  So far I haven't actually fallen on top of you.  If I ever do, I can assure you that I will come out in better shape than you will.  

And then there's your fascination with the roof.  I understand this, to an extent.  You can chase unsuspecting birds, sleep in the pocket between the chimney and the slope of the roof, and meow piteously when neighbors arrive on the porch to show how mistreated you are.  (Oh, pooooor cat!  Are you stuck up on that old hot roof with no one to get you dowwwwwn?  Whatever is she thinking?)  This is normal feline behavior, and comes with the territory.  But last week you were still on the roof when it started to get dark, and I knew there was a storm coming in.   We both know how much work it was to get you forcefully down from the roof, because I still have the scars on my arms to prove it.  That would have been that, but 10 minutes after the storm hit, I heard a meeeeooowww coming from the direction of the roof.   Yup, you had climbed back up there, and there was no dry spot, and you climbing tree was moving around with the wind, and it was dark.  You wanted down.  I weighed the pros and cons, and decided that trying to climb a ladder in the dark with rain and wind to retrieve a wet, agitated cat was not a sane idea.  The storm was wet and windy, but not particularly cold.  I went back in and waited out the storm, then checked the garage.  You stalked in, looking decidedly drenched, and I laughed.  You didn't look amused.  I would have dried you off with a towel, but I would likely have acquired a few extra scars in the process. I noticed that you haven't been back on the roof in the last week.  Why is that?

I really hesitate to bring this up, but I have to talk about yesterday morning.  I was sitting peacefully on my back porch, sipping my morning coffee and watching the two does who were eating the plants in the back yard.   Suddenly,  from under the porch came a bundle of black fur that headed straight for the deer, streaked right between the hooves of both does, then disappeared into the bushes, leaving the deer literally falling over each other in a panic.   Do not take the sound of hysterical laughter coming from the porch to mean I though this was a good idea.  It wasn't.   And I really have to ask: "What  the hell were you thinking?" Maybe you were indulging a fantasy of being a leopard streaking across the veldt to bring down a wildebeest for your breakfast.  Or perhaps you saw something that looked like feet, and out of habit decided you just had to run between them.  In any case, it was Not A Good Idea.   Don't do it again.  Or if you are going to do it again, at least give me some warning so I can have the camera handy.

I really wish you would explain what goes on inside your brain.  Maybe your mama dropped you on you head one too many times when you were a kitten.   Maybe you have a feline version of schizophrenia.   Or perhaps my brother was right when he said:  "You know, by any reasonable standard, cats are just not sane."

I'll await your reply.

Sincerely, A.