A Tale About a Narcissistic Cat
A story to be taken with a grain of salt
Many years ago, before I found out that I had a strong allergy to cats, my husband and I brought home a kitten. She was a charming creature with emerald green eyes, the grace of a wild jaguar and a short dense but silky blue gray fur coat.
I love cats, by the way. I admire their independent untamed spirit, the fact that they never follow the rules unless they want to, and their wild grace. I love the fact that they are loners. I love them for their survival instincts. I especially like how they look at you as if contemplating if you are worth their attention. Cats’ self-centered almost narcissistic nature holds some inexplicable special attraction for me.
My husband was a dog lover. He didn’t like cats and didn’t trust them. He was like, if my pet doesn’t follow my instructions and doesn’t look at me with adoring eyes, what’s the point?
What does following instructions and submissive behavior have to do with love and admiration, I might ask. Never mind.
As soon as it arrived in our home, the kitten started studying us.
No doubt, the beautiful smart cat had a longer-term cunning plan in place. The plan was to get the two humans trained so that the cat could have some fun, not counting the occasional chase after random mice that now and then turned up on our balcony — yes, on the 16th floor of a tall central Moscow apartment block. Apparently one of our neighbors kept white pigeons and some grains on his balcony. Mice don’t know boundaries.
Soon my husband became very attached to the cat.
I’d often find him sitting on the sofa with the cat on his chest; the cat continuously purred, and my husband looked like a toddler that had eaten a box of chocolates — showing total satisfaction with life. He absolutely loved the creature but would deny it every time I asked him to admit the fact. Oh well, men never do, don’t they, although their feelings can be so easily read — in most cases anyway.
Somehow the cat trained my husband so that he allowed the cat to move anywhere she wanted around the apartment, not to mention sitting on his head while he was asleep. But one place remained a big no-go: the cat wasn’t allowed to jump onto the kitchen table. Never. The table was a taboo.
The cat was very smart and quickly realized that the table was a no-cat land. She seemed to be fine with it. Well, she didn’t show any signs of being annoyed or trying to jump onto the table. A no was a no.
The Incident
Until one early morning I heard my husband making funny choking noises in the kitchen.
According to the husband, he walked in — still half asleep — and saw the cat lying on the kitchen table, right in the middle of it, on her back, with her eyes open and looking straight into my husband’s eyes.
The cat kept eye contact during the brief moments as my husband was gasping for air and shaking off his sleepiness, coming to terms with the grim reality — his beloved cat lying right there in front of him, exactly where she wasn’t allowed.
The cat continued to keep eye contact as he was moving, slowly and still in disbelief, towards the kitchen table. She looked him in the eyes lying motionless on her back, as he started ordering the cat (or rather barking?) to get off the table, immediately.
She didn’t move and didn’t blink — her emerald green eyes studying my husband as he was approaching. It was only when he was almost half a meter close, the cat lazily and gracefully jumped off the table and ran away.
I knew the cat was enjoying every moment of the show.
My husband’s morning was ruined.
Being a very emotional, outgoing, loud and rather temperamental man, he had a lot to say — loudly — about our charming cat in particular and cats in general. He repeated the story again and again, asking for all cats to be banned. He wanted our cat thrown out of the apartment immediately. He promised he’d be training the cat as if it was a dog. There were other threats, too.
As the emotional storm calmed down, and the cat was strictly told off several times, their relationship was back to normal. She was purring on his chest, and he was showing signs of extreme happiness and satisfaction.
She would get on your chest and look you in the eyes, keeping direct eye contact until you almost feel like you are drowning in her eyes, hypnotized by the low purring and the warmth of her body. Who could resist her incredible grace, charm and the soft silky coat?
The Catch
The cat knew what she was doing.
She patiently waited for some months until their relationship and my husband’s affection grew even stronger, and my husband’s memory of trespassing the kitchen table faded away.
Then she did it again — following exactly the same scenario, catching my husband off guard and receiving exactly the same reaction. Followed by the same scenario of rekindling their friendship.
I knew then — after the second time — that my husband was doomed. The cat didn’t need anything on the table, it wasn’t like there was food there, or access to a window. The cat loved experimenting with pushing people’s buttons. I would know, I love pushing buttons, too.
Being a very smart animal, she knew that pushing buttons too often could take things too far and lead to negative consequences, plus my husband’s reaction wouldn’t be as strong. So, she chose exactly the right intervals, waiting for the storm to calm down. Until next time.
And my husband? What about him — he got seduced and charmed first. Once you get too deep into this type of a relationship, it’s hard to get out especially if the perpetrator doesn’t go too far too often.
Departure
Four or five years later, we left for New Zealand.
We couldn’t take the cat with us — New Zealand has very strict quarantine rules plus I developed a very strong allergy. We had to leave the cat behind — with my mother and her small hunting dog (I don’t remember the breed).
Our beloved cat had her second (out of nine) life unfolding, full of new opportunities, with a new human and one dog to train, which turned out to be lots of excitement, as I found out later from my mother.
I loved the cat but didn’t get truly attached to it. I rarely get attached to anything or anyone.
My husband, on the contrary, missed the cat for about a year, to the point where his eyes were automatically scanning our lounge room in New Zealand in the hope that his beloved cat would come out from behind the sofa. The story with the kitchen table became a cherished memory. He didn’t want just any cat; he wanted HIS cat back.
After so many years, now and then he still talks about Our Cat. Not so long ago, as I was cutting the sleeves off a high-quality high-something-branded male shirt kindly donated to me by my husband, he asked if I remembered the cat. Of course, I did.
He asked what I was doing with one of his best shirts and why some of his best clothes always ended up in my closet.
I sensed an imminent storm approaching and tried to imagine what our cat would have done in this situation if she was a human.
In a voice conveying deeply hurt feelings I said that he chose to donate the shirt to me so I could get creative and experiment — male shirts with no sleeves make stylish summer vests (the quality of cotton and the colors are usually better in male shirts).
What about the jeans and jerseys, he asked? He said he never quite understood how his clothes constantly migrated to my closet.
I showed him his ex-jeans that were now restyled into shorts. Didn’t he like them on me? I said I could give him back his other clothes that hadn’t yet been deconstructed, that is if he insisted. My facial expression and my voice clearly showed that only a very cruel insensitive and unloving man could do that to me.
Okay, husband said. He wanted to see a glimpse of happiness and joy in my eyes. And he saw that, as soon as I received his approval to keep his clothes. I jumped, hugged and kissed him. We were back in our happy place, our relationship and affection rekindled. I could continue experimenting with cutting off extra fabrique here and there.
Our cat would be proud of me.
