If anyone should know better than to poke their finger through the wire mesh of strange cat’s kennel, it’s me. In seconds the business end of a black paw ripped an impressive gash across my index finger. I wrapped my bloodied finger in a tissue and stood back.
We eyed each other, the cat and I. He’d moved to the back of the cage and was stretched out, ears perked forward.
“Such beautiful boy. Black cats are so special,” I crooned. A little flattery never hurts.
Mr. Black Cat flipped upside down and extended an apologetic paw, eyes glittering with fun and intelligence. Game on. He was ready for round two, and now his body language radiated play mode. I glanced at the tag on his cage and bit my lip. This little Humane Society love had been confined to his small enclosure at Pet’s Mart for over two months. My new furry friend wasn’t vicious; he was just bored. I knew enough to know his time was running out. I’m guessing you know what happened next.
Contract signed, cat food and travel crate purchased, we headed home accompanied by full-throated, yowling, cat rap. He was not cut out to be a world traveler.
I named him Hooter because of his huge, owl-like yellow eyes, settled him into the study with a tempting dinner and a bowl of water. He eyed the food, dove under the recliner, and set up housekeeping. No amount of cajoling convinced him to venture out. Cats, being the willful creatures that they are, can’t be pushed. He’d come out to explore in his own good time.
Two hours later, just as I was dozing off, I felt an inquisitive and very cold nose poking at the crannies of my face.
“Are you awake?” Poke, poke.
“I am now,” I half grumbled, half sighed. “Hi there, little one. How’s my boy?” I removed a probing paw from my ear. At least he had the good manners to keep his claws retracted.
He maneuvered as close as possible and stood on my pillow. Utter, inner-cave darkness descended as the full weight of a mid-size cat body plopped across my face. Fur filled my mouth, and I felt itchiness creeping into my eyes. Suffocation not being an option, I slipped out from under his snuggling body and slid another pillow under my head. Undaunted, my new bed buddy squirmed closer. His long tail flicked across my face in rhythm to the movement of his head and tongue as he stretched and washed each leg.
I gently massaged under his chin until he settled down on the pillow, satiated and content. Soon, a deep purring played out a steady rhythm. My breathing slowed as I shadowed its soothing cadence. My chronic insomnia relaxed its grip.
Twelve years later, he’s still my pillow buddy. He not only adjusted to the introduction of dog friends, he made it clear that, in this house, the cat is the boss. He tracks lizards and birds from behind the safety of a closed screen door, and he sits between my computer monitor and keyboard to make sure I’m not slacking off. Hooter is the cat king of his castle, a benevolent ruler of his catdom.
TUCSON, AZ
