Like it or Clump it

My right hand is battered and marked, red with fresh wounds from earlier today when Ike’s misdirected aggression once again fired in my direction. A visiting cat meowed outside our door, and, being the coward that she is, she attacked me when she couldn’t reach him through the screen door. It is on days like these when our relationship feels more like a junior high alliance rather than the devoted-pet-and-caregiver one I had hoped for when I took Ike into my home four years ago. Like a thirteen year old girl sensing weakness, Ike plays her assets: She’s adorable. Charming. Your omg bff, like forever. And this seems sincere. It is sincere. We can have matching charms: I <3 my cat/ I <3 my human. We will agree to hate the same people and the same things and this will be the cornerstone of our relationship. But then without motive, the charade slips away and the creature that was lurking beneath the purring steps forward. Instead of receiving her pat on the head, she bites the hell out of me.

On page 18 of “The Toilet Trained Cat,” the author suggests that “toilet training is much easier if the cat wants to please you, and a cat’s not going to want to please you if she doesn’t like you.” This is under the chapter titled “How Your Relationship with your Cat Affects Training.” Before seeing this in print, it was a thought that sat in the back of my mind like a kid shooting spitwads in the back of a theater. It’s not that Ike doesn’t like me. She does. But I think she is also fairly certain that I am a Philistine, a moron that she must tolerate in order to continue receiving food. Like any good despot, she knows must abuse me to make sure that I stay aware of this. So as Ike and I approach a milestone in our toilet training journey (putting the litter pan in the toilet bowl its self) I worry not that Ike doesn’t like me, but that it would be beneath her to please me. Of course I want my companion animal to like me. I buy her the good cat food. The no-clay litter. My floor is littered with her toys. I laugh at all of her jokes, even the ones that aren’t funny, and tell her that of course she’s not gaining weight—she’s the prettiest one out of all of us. But now, with the moving of the litter box, the stakes are higher. If Ike refuses to use the litter in the bowl, it could turn into a messy few weeks.

In the last two weeks of training, there have only been two missteps. The first was a miscalculation on Ike’s part. It was the first day that the litter pan had been on top of the toilet seat, and perhaps Ike was feeling over confident. I came home to a yellow puddle on the back rim of the seat, and a clean box of litter. The second may have been an attempt to correct the first. I came home from work to find the litter box upended and litter strewn across the tile floor. I ran through the scene in my imagination: Ike perched coolly on the rim of the box, all four paws gripping the same edge. And then physics would have taken over. A ten pound cat on the edge of a three pound litter box yields disaster. The scene spoke for its self, and Ike had no comment on the embarrassing situation. I handled the event delicately, cleaned the mess, and within one day we were back on track. Which leads us to today, the premier of the litterbox-actually-inside-the-bowl phase.

The reason this phase is tricky is because it requires the kitty to sit on the seat herself, and accept the new, more hidden location of the litter. Some cats will refuse, others will find new locations to relieve themselves. My hope is that our prep training has paid off. My hope is for a clump of litter in the pan by morning.  My hope is that she trusts me enough, likes me enough, to give this a try.

When, in 8^th grade, my best friend since 6^th grade moved on to a more affluent social group, I didn’t fight her decision. It was a quiet friend break-up. There was no screaming match, no returning of clothes or even badmouthing one another in the junior high hallways. But she with her long blond hair and Sketchers shoes and I behind my braces and glasses could no longer find a place to meet one another. She liked 98 Degrees, I was a Beatlemaniac. Somewhere, I had slipped behind, and in the dust of our friendship, there was nothing left to say, except for a nod in the hallways in between classes. It wasn’t that she didn’t like me. And it wasn’t that I stayed angry at her. It was that perhaps she had outpaced me in the direction that she was traveling. I threw away the macramé necklaces and beads that we had made together and didn’t speak to her again until the final quarter of our senior year.    

Maybe I’m expecting too much to hope that this will be a kind of bonding experience for Ike and me. Sharing the same unmentionable space should be the kind of thing that brings owner and pet closer together. Not that I’m expecting her to like me more.  I don’t delude myself into thinking that this will end the biting, the cold shouldering, the looks of disgust and pity, but I do hope that somewhere between flushes, we can find a new common ground. I’ll leave the lid up for her.