Ivan's Secret Friend
Enough secrecy. Enough denial and shame. I think it's finally time for the truth: Ivan the cat has a secret friend.
During visits to the suburbs, at first I thought Ivan's insistence to go outside had to do with desires like freedom, fresh air, rolling in the grass (and oh does he like to do that), but soon it seemed that the more he got to go out, the more he wanted to. He was insatiable, even braving wind, rain, and the occasional woodland critter. This bespake something greater — something more subtle — something more sinister, even.
Ivan the cat had found another man.
I checked for the telltale signs. Did his breath smell of another brand of cat food? No. Was he a little fatter? A little drier? A little less windblown than he should be after staying outside for a couple of hours? Not really.
But then, finally, one day, we caught him in the act:
Here I had thought he was on the prowl for a new human, when all he'd done was make a new hunting buddy. Whew. No harm done there, then.
Ivan, on the other hand, was not so sure about how to react to the new situation where he knew that I knew, and worse, he knew that I knew that he knew I knew. What's a cat to do? "Yes, Matt, this is my new tuxedo cat friend. We're proud of our relationship, and we hope you are, too?"
No.
"Friend? What friend? OH MY GOD THERE'S A CAT RIGHT THERE HOLY HELL STAY BACK NOW WHERE IT'S SAFE WHILE I TAKE CARE OF THIS COMMIE PINKO BASTARD TRESPASSING PIECE OF SHIT!"
. . . At which point he puffed up to about four times his already generous size, growled like a demon sprung from the depths of hell, turned back on his [now utterly perplexed, of course] new friend, and pounded the living daylights out of him.
Cat logic: if you're not sure whether the master would approve of something, just shred the catnip stuffing out of it, and cite the Homestead Protection clause of the feline bylaws.
During visits to the suburbs, at first I thought Ivan's insistence to go outside had to do with desires like freedom, fresh air, rolling in the grass (and oh does he like to do that), but soon it seemed that the more he got to go out, the more he wanted to. He was insatiable, even braving wind, rain, and the occasional woodland critter. This bespake something greater — something more subtle — something more sinister, even.
Ivan the cat had found another man.
I checked for the telltale signs. Did his breath smell of another brand of cat food? No. Was he a little fatter? A little drier? A little less windblown than he should be after staying outside for a couple of hours? Not really.
But then, finally, one day, we caught him in the act:
Here I had thought he was on the prowl for a new human, when all he'd done was make a new hunting buddy. Whew. No harm done there, then.
Ivan, on the other hand, was not so sure about how to react to the new situation where he knew that I knew, and worse, he knew that I knew that he knew I knew. What's a cat to do? "Yes, Matt, this is my new tuxedo cat friend. We're proud of our relationship, and we hope you are, too?"
No.
"Friend? What friend? OH MY GOD THERE'S A CAT RIGHT THERE HOLY HELL STAY BACK NOW WHERE IT'S SAFE WHILE I TAKE CARE OF THIS COMMIE PINKO BASTARD TRESPASSING PIECE OF SHIT!"
. . . At which point he puffed up to about four times his already generous size, growled like a demon sprung from the depths of hell, turned back on his [now utterly perplexed, of course] new friend, and pounded the living daylights out of him.
Cat logic: if you're not sure whether the master would approve of something, just shred the catnip stuffing out of it, and cite the Homestead Protection clause of the feline bylaws.