Cat vs. Human not a Fair Fight

Anyone who knows me well is acquainted with my charming cat, Fiver. He is a sweet, personable little darling who loves to be petted, kissed, carried about, and all other activities you might imagine the perfect cat indulging in. He comes when he is called, plays with toy mice, sleeps on his back with his feet splayed out in the most adorable fashion, and keeps himself clean. All first time visitors to my home are captivated him. But cat perfection comes at a high price. When thwarted Fiver is a mighty foe indeed.

Due to the age and advanced girth of a couple of our cats, Eric and I have been forced to put the cats on a special, and may I say expensive, diet of prescription pet food. Our other cats realize that change is a part of life and partake of the pricy food with minimum fuss. But not Fiver. He is wagering a war of terror against me that I have no hope of winning.

After the offending food has been rejected, Fiver proceeds to follow me around the house, mewing in an imperious tone most people reserve for Nazi sympathizers. He then pushes all my books and papers onto the floor, looking me straight in the eyes the whole time. While I gather my scattered belongings Fiver sharpens his claws on whatever paper has flown free, effortlessly ducking the book I throw at him. He then starts dive-bombing my ankles, nipping my heels and running away before I can retaliate. If I even look toward his food dish he runs toward it hopefully, triggering the rest of the cats to do so as well, tripping whatever human might be in there path.

It only gets worse from here. He amps up these activities, throws in a bit of vomiting, and makes all work or even avoidance of work impossible. I can’t even go to the bathroom without him jiggling the doorknob, a la the raptors in Jurassic Park. Sometimes Fiver pretends to be sorry for causing me so much pain. He jumps in my lap and cuddles up sweetly, only to wrap his dagger claws in my hair or scrap his vampire fangs across my skin at his earliest convenience. During all this Eric blissfully watches football; all but unaware of the torments my soul is going through. He might throw in a “bad Fivy” every once in a while, but somehow this has no effect on the vengeful cat. The end is always the same: Fiver gets the food he wants and I am shamed that a cat has more willpower than I have.

To all of you who are doubtlessly rolling your eyes and thinking how you would never be some cat’s bitch, I dare you to withstand Fiver’s Old Testament like wrath. He is worse than any plague of locus or river of blood.