Big Lesson, Little Furball

One idea for the title of this post was Dhammapussy (an homage to Octopussy), but it quickly occurred to me that, in this day and age, the term "pussy" conjures up the image of a cunt rather than a cat. And so I settled on the existing title, although less titillating.

Yeah, so... cats. I have one. No, I'm not a "cat person". I'm just a person with a cat, okay? I brought her home almost a year ago. This may not be surprising to most. But definitely a shock for anyone who knows me and knows my history with cats. For me it was (and is) a big deal. I always thought that some people are born "cat people" or "dog people" just like some people are born "baby people". For example, my sister used to have a cat. She fed it and took care of it, for many years. Now she has a rabbit. She also feeds it, changes its cage, even takes it out to play. That may sound elementary if you have a natural inclination to care for living things. But for me it was a commitment of unimaginable horror. Certainly something beyond my ability (not to mention maturity level). The truth was I was too damned selfish to take care of another living being. Not only that, but completely lacking in patience. I have lived with many cats, none of them mine, and they have repeatedly tried my patience to a breaking point.

The problem, as I see it today, was that I could never let the cat be a cat. It would meow, I would cringe. It would claw at something, I would yell at it. It would follow me around with it's meowing and clawing, I would go into a rage! I used to fantasize about throwing it off the balcony. The poor cat just wanted me to feed it, or give it some attention, perhaps a little rub behind the ears (or is that a dog's thing?) and there I was, fantasizing about murder. Or felinacide (I think I just made up a word).

So, naturally, I thought to myself one fine day "I'm gonna get me a cat!"

Now, let me cut to the chase here. I'm not going to bore you with a story of how I came to name the cat Ted (even though she has no balls), or how I brought her home, and other cute kitty-coming-of-age tales. Because that's not the point here. The simple point I wish to make is this: anything that irritates you has the potential of being a great teacher.

Of course, even the greatest teacher can teach you nothing if you're not a willing pupil. When I was wishing for the death (or sudden disappearance) of these various cats, I was not willing to learn from them. I just wanted them to shut the fuck up, go sit in a corner and lick themselves (isn't that what they're supposed to do?) If that's your attitude, do not - I repeat, do not - get a cat. Or any animal. In fact, don't even come within 50 meters of an animal. Or child for that matter. Because you are so irritable and volatile (I'm speaking from experience here) that you are a danger and a menace to living beings. That's right, a menace.

Carrying on...

From the moment I brought this little furball home, it's been one lesson after another. First there was the obvious question of litter-box training. Ted pissed on my bed one day, and that spot henceforth became the place to go. Usually at 5:00 a.m. You know, just before she would wake me up by clawing at my exposed flesh, which for some reason is especially sensitive early in the morning (cats seem to instinctively know when and where to strike in order to yield the highest return of pain and frustration).

Lesson 1: Contrary to my beliefs, the cat was not pissing on my bed on purpose. It was a kitten. It was not some passive-aggressive way of telling me she's displeased with the level of care I was offering. It was not some act of rebellion, a sort of "Fuck you, human!" No, it was simply an 8-week-old kitten trying to figure out life. And at that stage that meant trying to figure out where it was okay to piss and shit, and where it was not okay to piss and shit. A difficult lesson for both of us.

Having said that, she recently had surgery and was put into a post-op body net. Sounds kinky, I know, but it was more of a surgical mesh suit than an S&M getup. Anyhow, she obviously did not fancy her body net. It was restricting, which I guess was the idea. But you can't explain things to a cat. And even if you could, I doubt she would give a shit. I don't think she has the ability to foresee consequences (something I've only recently learned myself).

So while I was sitting in meditation, she came over to sit with me. Or so I thought. Instead, she climbed directly into my lap, and decided that this was as good a place as any to relax her urethral sphincter (a.k.a. piss muscle). That's right, she pissed on me. Maybe she thought that by putting her into a mesh body suit, I was initiating some kind of power game, that I was asking her to piss on me (I'm not into that by the way. Seriously.) Or maybe she was protesting the suit and again saying "Fuck you, human!" But I revert to Lesson 1: The cat is not out to get me. She was recovering from anaesthesia and likely confused. Or maybe that was all a ruse. Who knows. The point is my sanity benefits from believing the former.

Moving on (since we've spent enough time on cat piss at this point), there is the clawing. Yes, cats like to claw. And in addition, mine has a fetish for biting hands and feet. Just hands and feet. No other body parts. And not just hands and feet, but bare hands and feet. It's as if she knows that clothing offers a safety barrier, however minimal, between her teeth and your flesh, thereby decreasing the pain experience and the potential for drawing blood. No blood, no deal. That's her motto. This is not because she is evil incarnate. No, she is simply a cat. Cats are soft and fuzzy, but they are also sharp and pointy (an allegory - is that the right word? - for life and everything in it).

In earlier days I tried "teaching" her by biting her back. This was to no avail. It's as if she was in a dopamine high, completely numb to any outside sensations, where the pain of me biting her could in no way compare to the euphoria of her biting me. Like a crackhead. Yep, just like a crackhead. Granted I didn't bite hard enough to make her bleed. I felt that would border on animal abuse. Right? Either way, I'm not about to try it. I've just accepted the fact that I will have wounds on my hands (and sometimes feet). They don't even burn so much any more. I think I'm getting used to it! (Oh shit, it sounds like I'm developing battered wife syndrome.)

Enough of this masochism. There are other things she likes to claw besides flesh, namely curtains, carpets, clothing, towels. In short, anything she can get her claws into. She also likes to walk into burning candles and onto hot stoves (cats are surprisingly flammable by the way - just a warning). When I first moved into my new apartment, which was coincidentally because of Ted (or rather because of my then roommate's terrible allergy to Ted), I made the obligatory trip to IKEA. Not because I love IKEA (although their meatballs are something else), but because it's the only furniture I can afford. If you're one of those people with a "real job", you can probably afford "real furniture". I am not one of those people.

I naively spent CZK 3000 on a rug and CZK 800 on curtains. I say "naively" because later, when I got angered by Ted's excitement at having something new to claw in the apartment, it became painfully clear that I was not at all familiar with the ways of cats. Yes, to Ted my hard-earned cash (or the shit I bought with it) was just another toy.

Lesson 2: My stuff is just another toy. I realized at this point that my sanity was not worth CZK 3800. In fact, you cannot put a price on sanity. You just can't. I let Ted chew the carpet. I let Ted shred the curtains. Why? Because the alternative involves madness. At this point I realized the cat probably knows more than I do. I started to think "Maybe I'm taking this stuff too seriously". And I was. All my shit (everything I own) is just a toy. And if I see it as anything more than that, it's owning me. And I will suffer. In the same vein, cooking and cleaning - or any attempt to do these things - are games, not chores that must get done at any cost. Wow, this cat's starting to teach me some really heavy shit.

I have ceased getting angry with my cat. And all cats everywhere. And I'll tell you why. Because I've ceased the crazy thinking that is supported by many cat owners, and that is the thought that I am engaged in a war with my cat. That's how I used to think. And when that was my thinking, everything was a battle. Everything the cat did was a "Fuck you!" and I had to "teach her a lesson". I had to show her who was Master! (Again with the S&M references. What the hell?) This kind of thinking is ridiculous. It assumes that you and the cat are on a par with one another. It assumes that there is something being fought over. Territory? Dominance of said territory? Use of the litter box? Seriously, if it's that last one, you need to get your own litter box, okay?

Your cat does not think it's superior to you. In fact, it is entirely dependent on you for its survival. And guess what? Your cat is just being a cat. A cat is as a cat does. There is no secret plot being hatched against you. There is no battle being fought (except in your own mind), so stop projecting your own thoughts and feelings onto your pet (this goes for dog people too) and just be kind. That's all you have to do. Feed it. Give it shelter. Give it love. That's it.

As it turned out, my new cat friend was merely a metaphor (yes, I realize I'm misusing that word, but I can't for the life of me think of another one) for how I had been living life up to that point. I wasn't only in battle with Ted. I was in battle with everything and everyone! Once I ceased fighting the cat, I ceased fighting. Period. Sanity at last! Or at least some semblance of it. I let the cat be a cat, and in turn I let everyone and everything else be too. Or at least I started practicing. Holy shit, maybe I'm finally starting to grow up!

Lesson 3: Yes, cat scratches hurt. But trying to control the cat hurts more. A universal lesson. Om...