August 2, 2024
It’s been over a month since Smoky had surgery to remove his ear. He’s a bit too large to scratch his ear with his back leg, so he only had to wear the cone for a few days. It’s not that he’s fat, although he’s not underweight. Marveling at his appearance on the exam table last visit to the vet, I absentmindedly said, “He’s built like a fuselage!”
No longer in constant pain, and without the twice daily Gabapentin that kept him dozing most of the time, I’m getting to know who Smoky truly is. He keeps me guessing, that’s for sure.
Unlike most cats, he doesn’t have a single favorite spot, not even two or three, and he doesn’t stick to any one spot for more than a couple of days. The apartment isn’t very big, but he’ll have me searching for a good five minutes sometimes, until I find him tucked away in some new corner. He does have a defined set of resting poses, however. Not much variation there.
We have a routine. He and Tabitha get breakfast first thing when I get up. He hasn’t figured out that I will indeed feed him, that I will for sure put the bowl on the floor. He’ll be right in front of me, right underfoot, rocking his head back and to the side, looking up at me with his one eye. Maybe he thinks it’s an elaborate trick, that I might have no intention of feeding him, although we go through the same ritual every morning. He’s a fast eater, done in a minute or so. Across the room, Tabitha daintily consumes her morning treat, never finishing in under a quarter of an hour.
After breakfast, he disappears under the spare bed. He’ll often hang there for several hours. Not even the vigorous shaking of the cat treat jar can entice him out, not until he’s ready to make his appearance. It’s the world on Smoky’s terms. He knows who’s alpha, and he wants to make sure I do, too.
When he’s ready to interact, he’ll come and sit next to me on his ottoman for a half hour or so, sometimes less, but usually not more. I’ll pet him, and he seems to enjoy it, but only for a few minutes. He’ll start to grab my hand between his teeth, gently at first, then tighter and tighter. I protest and he’ll release, giving me an apologetic lick or two as I slowly withdraw my hand careful not to stimulate his hunting instinct further. I’ll go back to concentrating on my writing and when I pause to stare out the window as I search for a word or phrase, I’ll absent-mindedly reach down and run my hand along the top of his head. I try to remember to wait long enough that he’s forgotten the notion of my hand as prey, but I forget. If it’s too soon, he jerks his head up and chomps his jaws down on my fingers.
“NO BITE! NO BITE!” I exhort him. Sometimes I stare into his eye and whisper, mouthing the words in an exaggerated fashion. Cats can lipread, I’m certain of it. He reluctantly releases me, and disgusted at my taking issue with my hand as prey, he moves off his ottoman and finds a spot across the room. He’s all about his alone time.
He has a quiet meow, an unusual purr-chirp combination. I never know if he’s purring except those few times he lets me hold him, but only for a minute, with his body relaxed against my chest, but only for a minute. Sometimes he’s relaxed enough that when I’m petting him, he lets me hold my hand flat on his tummy.
In the night, when I use the bathroom, he comes sauntering in, stopping and sitting just beyond reach. He cocks his head back and to the side so he can get a good look at me with that one eye. After a few seconds, long enough to ensure I know who’s in control, he’ll come over and rub against my legs. I run my hand slowly from the top of his head to the tip of his tail. He lingers with my hand on his tail, then he’ll slowly spin and let me do it again. And maybe again. And perhaps one more time before a nonchalant retreat.
I still have to keep him separated from Tabitha when I’m away. I’m even a little nervous to leave them together when I go down for the mail. He devils her. Nothing overt. He just walks up to her and sits, perhaps a yard away, and simply stares. It’s just too much. Tabitha starts to howl as if she fears for her life. This only happens when I’m in another room. As soon as I move towards them, he calmly stands and walks across the room. If he pretends like he’s done nothing questionable he must think that perhaps I won’t notice that he has.
He doesn’t always invade Tabitha’s personal space. In the morning, when they’ve figured out I’m actually going to get up and feed them, no more false alarms, they’ll hang with me near the toilet. Tabitha is always at my feet, Smoky just beyond the threshold. He’ll hold my eyes with his one and start toward me for one of those long, top of head to tip of tail strokes, then catch himself as he remembers it’s not good to trigger Tabitha when he’s in my line of sight.
I’ve a good life with Smoky and Tabitha, for sure for sure. I wouldn’t trade any of it for anything.