Winnie, the Angriest Cat
Winnie is an orange tabby, and the only female cat in my household of six cats. She is made of anger — it boils deep inside her core, spilling out into her facial expressions and the noises she makes. She has a bad attitude about everything in life, and by “everything,” I mean the other five cats and one human who share a house with her.
If Winnie worked in an office, she’d be the co-worker sending mass emails demanding people stop leaving their copies on the printer. She’d leave snarky signs in the break room, admonishing her co-workers to clean up after themselves because their mothers don’t work there. She’d put a sign above the water cooler, telling people to replace the bottle when it’s empty. The sign would have a picture of a T-Rex and it would say, “The T-Rex has small arms. What’s your excuse?”
If she could go out in public, to stores and restaurants, she’d earn the nickname “Karen” everywhere she went. She’d demand to speak to the manager.
Instead, she’s a housecat with too many brothers and a human who insists on picking her up.
This morning, for instance, she slipped into my closet as I was picking out my clothes. I don’t actually want her in my closet, so I picked her up and put her out. She made a huffing sound, a short exhalation that signals disapproval.
The next time I removed her from the closet, she growled. She’s all talk, so I picked her up anyway.
She went back in the closet a third time and started looking for a place to sleep. Unfortunately, Scooter, my newest cat, discovered the open closet door and crawled inside, looking for adventure. What he found instead was an angry Winnie. She was irate. The closet is clearly her territory. She growled and huffed. The huffs came out in short little staccato bursts of righteous indignation. Huff huff huff huff huff.
Scooter ignored her, as did I. She’s angry all the time, so no one takes her seriously anymore. It’s just who she is. She’s all temper all the time.
I do have an occasional “slap fight” with her, where she’s super angry and slapping at me in hopes of causing serious injury — and I’m pretending to slap back, waving my hand in front of her (and not making contact — I would never, ever, ever hit my cat) and giggling as her frown deepens. I always come away with scratches, but I just can’t help myself. She’s so adorable when she’s angry.
But what makes her angriest of all — what causes her to hiss and spit and swear like a sailor — is when Sweet Zombie looks at her. She hates him. She hates everything about him. And he doesn’t care — he wants to play with her so badly. He chases her, and the profanities she spews when she runs up the bathroom door to get away from him would probably shock me if I understood cat speak.
She can be a love bug every now and then — especially when I’m putting on my makeup. I’ve gotten pretty good at putting on mascara while holding a purring cat on my shoulder. She purrs and purrs — until another cat walks into the bathroom. Then the purrs turn to growls.
