Column: I inherited a 4-pound, furry ball of destruction
My life is being held hostage by a 4-pound, 22-year-old black cat.
Her name is Inky, and I inherited her from my father, who was terribly worried about how she would fare after he died.
In a just world, he would have worried about me.
Inky is a slip of a thing. She was always skittish and unfriendly, given to disappearing when anyone who was not my father walked into a room.
He adored dogs but refused to adopt one because it might upset the delicate ecosystem he’d created for Inky, who lives a life of supreme comfort.
In the mornings, she would sit on The Times as he read it. My father found this annoying habit delightful.
In the afternoons, she would loll about his yard until he threw open the front door and whistled for her to come in for dinner. Who whistles for a cat?
If family members happened to be present when it was time for Inky’s holy dinner ritual, my father would throw the humans out of the house until she came inside and finished her meal. She would not enter the house if others were present.
At night, she would stand on his bed, and he would roughly tip her onto her side. She would pop back up, and he would tip her over again. And so it would go. She loved it and he loved it more.
His political outrage could be exhausting, especially if you agreed with him. Many times, I asked him to stop yelling at me, and he’d say, ‘I’m not yelling at you, I’m yelling at them.’
And then, after they had spent 20 years together, my father died. It’s been almost two years.
My niece and I moved into his house. Inky was sad and confused.
For six months, she refused to come upstairs to the bedroom. When I carried her up, she would bolt back downstairs as if she’d seen a ghost.
I had promised my dad that I would always take care of Inky, no matter what. He trusted that I would. And so I have.
But it has not been easy.
In her grief and dislocation, Inky peed on every rug and all the wall-to-wall carpets in the house. She ruined the living room rug, the dining room rug, then went to work on the second floor: The master bedroom. My niece’s bedroom. The office. Yes, yes, I know you must be thinking she’s got kidney or bladder problems. She does not. This girl was sending a message.
Eventually, the fumes got so bad I could no longer sleep in my own bed.
I ripped out the upstairs carpet and installed wood floors. The hardwood was a big improvement, so I suppose I am not furious about having to spend $14,000.
“Well, you got rid of the cat after that, right?” said a man I’d been dating.
Hell no. But I did get rid of him.
You must understand, I come from a family where pets have always ruled the roost. Dogs sleep in people beds. Cats roam kitchen counters. Pet rats who show the slightest sign of respiratory distress are rushed to the vet.
I do not necessarily want Inky to die, but until she does, I cannot have rugs or buy new furniture because the world is her litter box. I cannot leave important papers on the counter (or books, laptops or laundry) because she might vomit, poop or sleep on them. (Actually, the sleeping part wouldn’t be so bad, except she sheds hair like she’s losing a winter coat.)
She might deign to use her immaculately clean litter box, but she also might go right next to it, on the wood floor (which I will not spend a penny to refinish until she sheds her mortal coil). Vets sometimes prescribe kitty Prozac for this behavior, but her doctor thinks she’s too old for an anti-depressant.
Anyway, I’m the one who needs the Prozac.
Before I brew my morning coffee and sit down with the paper, I have to go on cat poop patrol.
Why? Because my 16-month-old golden retriever is into coprophagy. Look it up, it’s as gross as it sounds.
I want my niece to love reading as much as I do. She doesn’t. Arguments ensue. The experts’ advice? Chill out — kids read differently these days.
The 60-pound dog is desperate to have a relationship with the 4-pound cat, but the cat, being a cat, is oblivious. Poppy barks and growls to get Inky’s attention. She tries to nuzzle Inky and follows her around, begging and whining for a crumb of affection. Inky is unmoved.
In her dotage, the cat who was once terrified of her own shadow is now not just assertive but aggressively so.
She howls for her breakfast while I am still asleep. She headbutts my hands impatiently when I open a can of Fancy Feast, the only wet food that suits her palate.
When I attempt to make any sort of meal for myself, she violates my personal space. If I move to a different part of the kitchen, she leaps from countertop to countertop, right over the dog’s head, in pursuit. I’ve given up making tuna salad because it takes too much time and energy to fend her off.
Sometimes I hate her so much. And then she sidles up to me, purring and asking for love.
And I give it to her. I can’t disappoint my dad.
A cure for the common opinion
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