Ok, pet peeve time, and pardon the pun while we’re at it…
One of my cats, Pickle, is about to trespass into my computer room/home office, happy and purring like a 13-year-old rusty diesel Volkswagen. I know this because I am hearing the series of sounds that usually precede his royal entrance.
It usually starts with some medium-level meowing:
Meow = “Hey, your door is closed.”
Meow = “Hey, I wanna come in.”
Meow = “Why is this door closed anyway?”
Meow = “We usually keep this door opened, you know.”
Etc.
The vocals are typically backed by a series of clawless paw down-strokes against the door. The door rocks with every stroke, and the sound of the clicking of the latch bouncing on the door frame adds colour and mood to his progressive melody. Each soft push against the door results in making the skinny vertical opening pulsate and show him the world that is beyond the wooden nemesis.
And now, the glorious finale: a semi-purring laced with noises of face-mashing as he pushes his nose through the vertical opening between the door and the door frame. He eases through; the door caressing the curves of his body like the needle of a turn-table on a vinyl record. The sleek entry into the room is a success. Now the fun part begins.
He spots me. I turn my head and meet his gaze, resulting in another meow cracked out through the unstoppable purring. He stares me down, purring deeply with each inhale and exhale, his fluffy tail way up high with that little hook at the end, signaling his contentment. I know his game, and he’s just getting started. Mister Purr-o-tron is about to come rubbing up against my legs, knowing full well that I’m trying to work, and clearly not giving a hoot about it.
Without interrupting the sly stare-down, he firmly approaches. Each step resonates a faint thump in the room, adding a rhythm to the constant rev of his vocal engine. I can barely hear my typing now; those keyboard clicks that were previously the only sounds in my office have since been drowned out by a sea of purrs.
The soon-to-be offender reaches my right leg and the hair-transfer
begins. As a generous layer of black and white hairs obey to the laws of static
and Murphy, I gently push him away. The laws of magnetism kick in, and as fast
as I pushed him away, he is back on my leg, applying a second coating of cat hairs
to my track pants.
If I ignore him, he’ll go away. If I ignore him, he’ll go away.
So I ignore him, and he continues, ensuring no discrimination between the
division of the hair transfer between my right and left leg. To him, testing
out my patience must be life-long project.
That’s it buddy, you’re outta here. It’s fake-walk time: I pick him up
just high enough for his paws to touch the floor and fake-walk him back to the
door, thinking this is a victorious strategy that can’t fail. He can’t possibly
want to come back out after he “walked” himself out. Besides, he won’t remember
that he was in here anyway. I outsmarted this guy, and now I need to get back to my work.
Obviously, my fantasy crumbles to pieces as reality checks-in and the routine is brought back to life:
the meow factory, the down-strokes against the rocking door, the
click-a-dee-click of the latch, and the vertical crack giving birth to the
insatiable purring beast.
I don’t have time for this. Super-ignore-mode = ON. It is SO ON.
Fast-forward to the clinging cat against my legs, applying what I hope
is the final coat. The structural integrity of my super-ignore-mode fails with
the sound of a thump. Great. A fluffy-haired cat has let himself fall on his
side, right in between my legs and the asterisk-shaped arms holding the wheels under
my chair. Now I know how bomb technicians must feel: I can’t move. I can’t move
because I need to roll back my chair to see down there. Rolling back may result
in rolling over his tail, or his legs, or just plain rip out some of that hair.
The thought does cross my mind that he could use less hair, but I’m too nice to
do him this type of favour.
So I do what I can by stretching and squeezing my torso to see how the
landmine is positioned. This type of manoeuvre is best done when you are trying
to write an important work-related email to a group of co-workers, explaining
why they need to hold off on a specific solution for a specific issue. I live
life HARD and TO THE MAX, man.
My very limited gymnastics paid off: I have mentally mapped out the precise
series of steps and directional chair-rolling movements required to liberate
myself from the purring landmine, and resume his fake-walk training.
Why not close the door completely, you ask? You ask because you have
obviously never been on the other side of that door with a delinquent villain feline
with a full tank of purrs and a paw that won’t quit.
Fast-forward to version 3.0 of the cat-hair-to-leg assault. This time, his
strategy is not as landmine-ish as it is scorpion-ish. When this kitty is content,
his fluffy tail sticks straight up, and its rigidity nears the properties of a
good rebar. That stick is unbendable and shows no mercy. If he had an almanac
with all his weapons and strategies, this one would have its own chapter. It has
proven to be the most trying of my patience, and here’s why…
My mouse. My computer mouse. Every time he ventures underneath my desk,
scores of wires and cables get caught in his tail, including the wire on my
computer mouse. And when he goes, everything under 60 lbs goes with him,
including my computer mouse. We can thank that little hook at the top of his
tail for this, ensuring nothing gets left behind. He’s as powerful and menacing
as a scorpion when we plows through wires and cables. And today is no
different.
As he continues to rub against my legs, purring out his aria, I feel him
detach from my limbs….this triggers an increase of my heartbeat, because now it’s
a gamble: is it gonna be the landmine…..or the scorpion's tail?
Instead of the thump signaling the drop of the landmine, I hear the
other sound. The sound that is even worse than the thump. It’s the high-pitch rub of
the mouse as it quickly whizzes off from my keyboard tray and down into the
abyss. Being only human, I let out a scream of discontent (or despair?), which frightens
the beast from his devious scheme and provokes him to quickly get out from
under my desk, dragging the mouse and the remaining wires with him.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME????”
“Meow.”
“WHAAAAT???”
“Meow.”
That’s it. Let’s just go to his food dish and pop a few crunchies in the
bowl, and see if he’ll leave me alone. And alone I was, for a good portion of
the day.
As I was resuming my work, I kept thinking how proud I was to have
figured out the trick to train him to stop annoying me: all I have to do is get
up and go feed him.
Sometimes, training an animal to do exactly what you want can be much
simpler than you think.
Imagine how weird the world would be if THEY trained us
to serve their every need!
