It was nearly 1:30 a.m. by the time we collapsed in bed, hearts pounding, sweaty. Neither one of us thought we’d be able to sleep. The carpet burns and throbbing scratch marks were almost too much to bear. Then the moaning started again, and I knew it had been a mistake to get a cat for Jasper and Simon on Valentines Day.
Our first mistake was probably renaming the cat. It was 6 years old, after all, and had gotten used to “Button.” We just weren’t a “Button” family. But the cat had arrived suddenly after a friend called saying that her 10-month-old son was hospitalized with a respiratory infection. The doctors had told them to get rid of pussy cat.
So Puddy landed at our house, confused, and perhaps a bit freaked out by the eager new owners (me and Jasper). And to add to the confusion, I kept referring to Puddy/Button as a he, even though she’s not. New house, new name, new gender — all in one day. And a brain the size of a half-can of Fancy Feast to process it all.
We were told Puddy was declawed (which isn’t actually a word), but apparently this practice only applies to the front paws. I found this out the hard way when trying to pick her up. Someone at work today looked at me seriously and asked me if I had “had enough.” When I asked what she meant, she said, “Of life” and pointed to my scratched-up, swollen wrists.
Puddy’s first night was an ordeal for all of us. She spent 8 hours mewing and howling at the top of the stairs outside our bedroom door. By 1 a.m. I had indeed had enough. Button was going to the basement. And “Puddy” was gone; it was fully Button again — someone else’s annoying cat that was going to be Fedexed home in the morning. But try as I might, I couldn’t get the little arse-hole (vernacular recommended by Suzy — I was going to say “Little Fucker”) into the basement.
Here are some lessons: 1) You can’t catch a scared cat with a bath towel. 2) They really don’t like being shoo-ed from under the couch with a broom. And, 3) If you approach a cat from below, coming up stairs, it may very well jump at your face. What declawed cats lack in tools they make up for with confidence.
After about 15 minutes of after-midnight mindless hysteria, otherworldly shrieking, and hissing, Button had vanished. At one point I caught a glimpse of shadow and spun around with the broom, nearly knocking Suzy off her feet. It was a surreal family moment – like some wee-hour spontaneous paint ball game, in our house. The night was clearly toast. My heart was in my throat. Suzy looked like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark on a bad hair day. “We can’t do this,” she said. “The cat is going back.”
Button was deep in hiding. So we went to bed, hearts still pounding, wide awake. We should have taken advantage of the moment (and the fact it was still Valentines night) and had sex, but it honestly never crossed my mind at the time. All I could think of was cat scratch fever, the searing carpet burn, and irrationally how sure I was that Puddy/Button was just waiting for us to fall asleep so she could scale the baby gate and mount a cat counter-attack.
“It’s just a cat,” Suzy said. And suddenly I was so glad to be married this Valentine’s eve — she’s so rational. And she loathes pets. We agreed that we’d return Button in the morning.
Not even an hour later, the howling and mewing began again, and continued all night.
Jasper woke up just after 5am — “Mom! Dad! Puddy is calling! Isn’t she awesome?!”
