YOUR Crazy Mother …

Kingdom of the Kitty Cats.

We have three cats, Myrna and I. They were my cats until I moved in with Myrna a couple of years ago. I have a pretty strict no pandering policy when it comes to the little balls of fur. They exist at my pleasure and for my pleasure. Cold, perhaps, but at least we all knew who called the shots. I am the strict parent no one wants to be blessed with. With that strictness though came a strange measure of freedom. My cats and I formed a little pack, a pack where I was indubitably the alpha but let my subordinates have a fairly wide berth. Not to state the obvious, an obviousness that most pet owners gloss over, cats are not little people and I have never treated them as such. They are quasi-​​wild animals. Your average house cat can and will make their own way in the world rather successfully given even a slightly conducive environment and the necessity to do so.

Well, things have taken a peculiar turn in our house. The cats have seized control and now are the dominant species, a force to be reckoned with. Myrna, of course, is at the center of this extended coup d’état. The feline revolution happened quietly, not a shot was fired, but its permanent installment is unquestionable.

Much like the revolution that placed my sister and I in control many years ago, the kitty cats gained their superiority through a process of voluntary subjugation on Myrna’s part. Similarly with my grandmother’s tyranny in her later years, Myrna gave grandma the power over Myrna willingly. Why? I don’t really know. But, perhaps not surprisingly, I have a theory. My mother likes to please others. No, let me rephrase, my mother needs to please others. A large part of her self-​​worth is derived from being useful to someone else. She is the perpetual handmaiden. I guess the cats could smell this on her and took full advantage of it. God damn them.

So what is the shape of this cat-​​based despotism?

What is the lay of the land in their kingdom?

The cats’ plates carefully laid out. I did this and didn’t quite get it right. The devil is in the details.

Most importantly, the cats now have a dedicated food-​​service machine. Dedicated indeed, the slightest meow anywhere near the kitchen sends Myrna into a flurry of activity because we all know that every time a cat meows, it must be starving to death. There are the regular meals, three per day, and then there are the inter-​​meal snacks. Myrna’s not really great at the whole variety thing, so the meals are pretty much the same — tuna fish, white, high-​​grade albacore tuna fish; the same tuna fish I use to make myself the occasional tuna salad. There are always many cans on reserve, in case of nuclear war, or an earthquake, or some other calamity that would shut the grocery stores. The cats now have sufficient Pavlovian conditioning to sense the moment of the opening of the can. They drop whatever important kitty-​​cat business they’re occupied with and bolt to the kitchen the second the can opener comes out of the drawer. But, they must wait, and they are usually not too happy about that. Unavoidably, scuffles break out, sending Myrna into a peace-​​bringing frenzy of appeasement and shouting.

There was no catering at my little impromptu photo shoot and Cocoa was quite perplexed by the broken ritual.

Myrna carefully breaks the chunks of tuna into a fine pulp with her own bare hands. I’ve seen a cat bite the head off of a mouse, spine and all in one fell swoop, but Myrna claims they are incapable of chomping down a chunk of tuna fish. Once the little dishes have been laden with their fish pulp, she then warms the food for them — yes, she actually warms the food for them. I can hear it now. 4–3-2–1 as she counts down verbally the time left on the microwave (cats can’t read numbers after all.) According to Myrna, cats just don’t like cold or even room temperature food. How she knows this I can only imagine. She then places the saucers of fish on placemats (which change with the seasons) on the floor. Cocoa, the old constantly hungry male, gets first dibs. His sister Tunsis second, with Myrna aware to the millimeter of how large the peacekeeping buffer zone must be. The young male, Peanut, is oddly unfazed by this whole production, but attends the ritual more out of boredom than hunger. After Myrna has ensured a lasting détente exists between the older cats, she places Peanut’s plate a fair distance away, lest Cocoa leap in and gobble up the food that Peanut really isn’t all the interested in. And, this holy sacrament happens three times a day.

One would think this would be enough for those greedy, greedy cats. But, no, they demand more. They also must have their dry food. Myrna keeps two bowls constantly brimming over both upstairs and downstairs. I guess, a cat, faint from lack of food, might not be able to make it to a single oasis before expiring, so we’d better have to just in case. There also is a reserve at the ready by each of these feeding stations, one kept in a Christmas tin, the other in the bag, carefully clothes pinned shut, she says to keep them from getting into the master supply — as if they’d ever need to.

Cats do not live by tuna alone and Myrna is at the ready to fulfill their other more lofty needs. She has transformed herself also into the door-​​opening machine. If a cat walks within 3.61 feet of the door, she is there in a jiffy to open it for them. Well, just because a cat wanders near a glass door with a fine view of the backyard does not mean they want to go out into said backyard. So there is an inevitable few moments of indecision in kitty’s mind. Should I go or should I stay. Wait for it, wait for it. Myrna patiently stands by while the wheels turn in that walnut of a cat brain. If the vote is a ‘yea’ then kitty slowly, slowly passes the threshold. Myrna knows though that the cat is a finicky, fickle creature and is just as likely after taking three minutes to decided whether or not to go outside to change its mind. So she continues to wait for a veto. It is tiring just to watch this whole scenario, one that is played out countless times each and every day. I’ve begged her to just kick the damn cat out, but she will not hear of it.

The re-​​entry procedure is just as elaborate and time-​​consuming. Myrna can sense a cat at the back door from across the house. I do not know how. Again she bolts. Again we have the waiting game. Again we have the waiting game after the waiting game. I have offered to put a cat door in many times, but every time I do, I get a look of abject horror. How dare I suggest putting the door-​​opening machine out of a job, or seriously compromising the intricate security measures Myrna has put in place to keep the burglars, rapists and murderers out of her house. I, for one, would not feel all that threatened by a cat-​​sized burglar, rapist or murderer, but Myrna has very different sensibilities. In the end, it’s either a battle I cannot win or simply don’t care to fight, I haven’t decided.