Cat and the Poodle Tree

I had a cat. Maggie.  She was black and the most anti-social cat on the planet but she was so good and brave and she was totally committed to me.  When she met The Viking she watched him for 76 seconds and decided he was the man for her.  And me.  But mostly for her.

And then she got sick and we couldn’t fix her so we had to put her down and I cried for days. And then Mim bought a cat about a year later.  Dexter.  Mim worked during the day and you should never leave a baby home alone so I said I would kitty sit.  But guess who completely forgot what raising a kitten was like?

It was apparent immediately that he was a guy-cat. He struts.  Like John Travolta on the dance floor.  He also doesn’t listen.  He weighs less than a loaf of bread and he actually ignores the woman with the spray bottle!

“Get out of my Poodle Tree!” He looks over his left shoulder casually while he is clinging to the trunk of my tree.  It’s obvious he’s not going to get down; in fact, he climbs a little bit higher.

“I SAID! Get. Out. Of. My. Tree!”  He doesn’t even look at me; apparently I’ve been deemed unimportant.  “I have the spray bottle!”

Crickets

I take three steps toward him and he pauses, reassessing the situation.  I’m an unknown so he retreats but not without a generous amount of grumbling (it’s actual grumbling…..on par with mumbling curses under his breath!) and gives me the stink eye.  I have stuff to do so I go back to the kitchen.  I hear him on the sofa and the rattle of the leaves in the tree!  Dirty cat! I pluck him out of the tree and put him down in the kitchen, hoping to distract him with some treats.

He gobbles down 3 treats, stretches and casually walks toward the family room. “Stay away from that tree, Dexter.”  He doesn’t and I go pluck him out of the tree, say ‘No!’ and put him down in the kitchen with a catnip toy.  He picks up the toy and trots it into the family room where he drops it on the area carpet and heads for the tree. “GAWD!” I pluck him out of the tree, tell him ‘NO!!” and put him down in the office with his catnip toy.

Then he noticed my flower arrangement with peacock feathers. We have a brief but intense battle of wills but this time it’s me who caved and I put the arrangement in my closet.  While I’m gone, for that 6.8 seconds, Dexter was back in my tree!  I pluck him bodily from the tree and told him, firmly, “NO!!” and set him down in the middle of the room.

I look at the clock. 11:00am.  Sigh.  So it’s a Mexican Standoff in the family room.  Me – eyes narrowed, hand wrapped firmly around the water bottle, finger on the trigger and completely resolved to win the battle of the Poodle Tree.  Dexter – starts cleaning his ass.  4 minutes later – still cleaning his ass.  6 minutes later – still cleaning his ass.  I’m getting bored and surely his bum is getting a little chafed from all the attention.

I back into the kitchen to get a slurp of my coffee. As I round the corner to the family room again I see him loping across the back of the sofa headed for the tree.

“FREEZE MOTHERFUCKER!!” Surprisingly he stops and stares at me.  I point the spray bottle at him.  His eyes lock with mine.  I squint mine just a little bit more.  He squints his.  I assume an aggressive stance.  Without breaking eye contact he takes another step toward the tree.

“Don’t do it, man!” He takes another step, our eyes locked.  “Seriously?!”  He takes another step.  “Oh. My. God!!  You little shit!”

I take a step toward him. He pauses momentarily, judging my resolve, but I can see in his eyes that he’s not done.  He lifts one foot.  “ACK!”  He freezes, foot still lifted.  I take another step toward him.  He puts his foot down and backs up one step.

Is he actually giving up?  I almost start to relax……but then he makes a mad dash for the tree!  “Nooooooo!” I yell as I leap to intercept.   I’m never going to make it.  I start squeezing the spray bottle trigger like it’s a machine gun.  Dexter is still in the air when the first 4 shots hit him in the side.  He jerks, surprised that he’d been hit.  He tucks and rolls across the back of the sofa, plops onto the arm then makes a 3-point landing on the floor – 2 feet and his chin.  My last 3 shots hit the wall.

“HA!” I shout in triumph as I bang against the sofa in an awkward heap. He gives me a filthy look and starts licking the water splots on his fur.  I have won the battle but I know the war is far from over.  He assumes a position in the middle of the area rug, all his feet tucked beneath him – his Pouty Pose – and stares malevolently at the floor.

It takes 6 days of intense combat to decide who is boss. Me, of course, but it wasn’t easy and for the first 4 days I wasn’t sure who would come out on top.

Nowadays, Mim only has to say “Let’s go to Grandma’s” and he gets excited.  He walks into the house and his tail is straight up and the tip is spasmodically twitching.  I say “DEXTER!!” and he trots over to love my legs and I give him treats.  He hasn’t lost his swagger or his determination but we have established a mutual truce and the Poodle Tree is off limits.