Unbothered

Cats are assholes. Just ask anybody. Even most cat owners, at least those who are lacking in delusion regarding the tiny maniacs that they have chosen to cohabitate with, they will tell you the same. Granted, it’s mostly tongue-in-cheek and said with love, but that doesn’t make it any less factual. In a society which considers the dog, that most loyal of beasts, as “man’s best friend,” then the independent cat must be the opposite. They are self-assured, confident, and utterly unbothered. Perhaps this is why the larger percentage of “cat people” are women.

* * * * *

As I sit at my desk in my home office, drudging through my workday and reviewing yet another mind-numbingly dull spreadsheet, I am suddenly joined by one of my feline housemates. Cupcake, also affectionately known as “Piggy Smalls,” has leapt all 19 pounds of her considerable body up onto my desk, and is now sitting back on her haunches expectantly. She proceeds to stare me down in that eerie unblinking way that only a cat can; the tension in the air is suddenly so very palpable.

We both understand what is happening here. This is simply a prelude, an oft’ rehearsed dance to precede a never-ending battle of wills. I meet Cupcake’s unblinking eyes, holding fast to her intense gaze. Contrasting sharply within chartreuse irises, her dark slitted pupils gradually widen. A black suede nose caps off a face covered in fur of deep ebony and bright white, arranged in chaotic patches that almost make her appear to be mustachioed; however, she takes much offense to this, so we simply do not speak of it ever. Long white whiskers frame her purrfectly feline face, twitching every so subtly with her every breath. One delicately pointed ear flicks, but otherwise both Cupcake and I are each motionless in this moment.

I know the game, though. It is my turn to speak… to acknowledge her queenly presence.

“Yes, my darling? Can I help you with something?”

And we’re off. Cupcake stands and twirls around on four graceful paws, tiny toe beans finding their footing easily. Her long black tail is raised high, curling into a question mark of curiosity. She steps over disorganized piles of work and office supplies and assorted nonsense, always hitting her intended marks with ease. Then Cupcake stakes her claim and the corners of my mouth turn up with the feel of her smooshy, fur-covered belly resting across the back of my hand as she crouches down and transitions into a comfortable lounge on top of my mousepad.

She looks up at me, my right hand and computer mouse trapped beneath her corpulence, asserting her dominance over the desktop domain. A silent challenge.

“Cupcake. Must we do this every day?”

The portly cat responds by shifting to reclining on her side, her legs stretching out until a ballpoint pen tumbles from the desk and clatters to the floor. It is neither her first casualty nor will it be her last. I shake my head and reluctantly pull my hand out from beneath her soft, chonky body, bring the mouse with me when I do. I place it on one of the few bare spots on the desk and attempt to resume my work. That spreadsheet’s not going to finish itself.

However, within minutes, Cupcake has managed to enlarge herself somehow. She has stretched out until there’s no longer any space left on the desk for the mouse, and so I pull up an errant cardboard box of who-knows-what. I manipulate the cursor across my screen haphazardly as I hold tight to my determination to ignore the furry agent of chaos currently overtaking my workspace.

But the agent is a cat, all of whom are made of liquid, and she is utterly unbothered.

Cupcake stretches more. She spreads. She invades. The tense silence is broken by the quiet susurrus of a stack of papers sliding off the desk and onto the floor. I grit my teeth and murmur, “Godammit, cat…” as I continue to ignore this tiny terrorist, all the while watching my wireless keyboard slide closer and closer to the edge of the desk with this guerrilla feline’s all-encompassing expansion. Inevitably, it lands in my lap, vanquished and useless. With a heavy sigh, I discard the keyboard, placing it on top of the box with its abandoned mouse partner.

“Okay, Cupcake, you want attention? Let’s do this.”

Leaning in, I rub my hand down over her body, head to tail, running my fingers over the smooth black and white fur. My fingers dance nimbly over Cupcake’s chubby little cheeks, making their way down to give gentle scritches underneath her dainty little chin. She throws her head back willingly, eyes gradually closing as she revels in the physical affection from her human slave. As I run my fingertips down over her soft throat, I can feel the tiniest of vibrations betraying the quiet purr that she attempts to keep all to herself.

She seems thoroughly contented for that all too brief of a moment. Then Cupcake seemingly remembers she is, in fact, still a cat, and that a cat is nothing if not mercurial. Her eyes open, formerly slitted purple now wide and round. Her tail flicks violently in warning. I see it, and I know exactly what it she is telling me.

However, much like Cupcake herself… I do what I want.

Cooing sweetly to her majesty, I return to applying slow luxurious strokes of my hand over her full furry body. That long black tail whips into a frenzy. She opens her tiny maw to protest, her small pitiful mew at comical odds with the dangerously sharp white fangs of an obligate carnivore. I know perfectly well that Cupcake is telling me, “Mahm! Stop, halt, desist! Only pet me now with your eyes, woman!” And yet I persist, unbothered. Her continued grumbled meows of defiance grow louder, and the whipping of her tail takes out a small stack of junk mail. I placatingly kiss the top of her sweet, angry little head.

Oh dear. I’ve gone too far. Again.

Cupcake suddenly sits up, hissing at me as she does so. I laugh and apologize, but we both know that I don’t mean it.

“I’m sorry, baby. I know, it’s so hard being you.”

I reach to gently stroke her insane little head, but she growls and lashes out a paw. What previously was a velvety soft cluster of adorable toe beans has transformed into a vicious murder mitten. A single razor-like claw catches the side of my pinkie, the sharp pain followed by a flash of red. Only a droplet. I’ve had worse.

Cupcake turns away from me indignantly, making very sure to give me the viewing pleasure of her butthole in my face, before jumping to the floor and disappearing down the hallway, conceding the desktop to me once more.

Until next time, mon amie.