Dammit!

No, I'm not really cursing. It's the name of my client's cat.

Well, it wasn't, but it is now.  At least that's what I call her.  Carol doesn't seem to mind.  Neither does the cat.  She loves me.  The cat. Maybe Carol, too.

I like cats...sort of.  I wouldn't want a cat for a pet.  I find them sneaky and unpredictable (witness the scratch and bite marks on my hand).  Love bites, says my friend the cat lover. (Yeah, my patootie.) I like to hear them purr.  I like their soft fur. I like to stroke a cat, and I like it when they sit on my lap.  I like to watch them play.  I wouldn't hurt a cat.  But let's face it, people, I'm a dog person through and through.

You cannot own a cat.  She is independent, expects a great deal from her human and will turn on you if you don't idolize her. She expresses her displeasure by glaring, ears flat, a quiet growl in her throat.  She may or may not accept the treats you offer; she will come when called if she feels like it. (My son once had a cat named Jasmine who hated me even though I saved her life. If I cared for her, she would put up with my presence until she was fed, then she'd turn and hiss, do her business on the floor next to the freshly cleaned litter box and defy me to challenge her. She now rests in peace in my backyard. I bet she hates that.)

Such is Dammit.

She will greet me on arrival, meowing for attention. Carol says she hasn't meowed in forever, so she must like me. She doesn't purr, either, but that's just a matter of time--I'll work on it.  She knows I feed her and will come when she hears the box.  She recognizes that I change her litter box daily--and she will still pee on the floor next to it.  I don't understand. And did you know that while a dog will generally remain tame, even if left to his own devices, a cat will turn feral? That's right, feral, as in wild. Ah, the strangeness of felixus domesticus.

"Dammit! Quit using the floor!" I will plead to deaf ears.
"Dammit! Quit scratching me! I know you don't mean to, but it hurts!"
"Dammit! I'm gonna get a water sprayer after you!"

Today Dammit crawled up on my lap, rubbing her face on my leg, then off to find a suitable perch to watch the rare birds outdoors. I took advantage, getting up to get a drink, sitting the quarter-full glass on a side table. Dammit, living up to her nickname, was back in a shot, batting at the glass with one tiny paw, spilling what was left before I could save it. Miserable cat. A dog would have exhibited some guilt, or wagged his tail at the fun of it all.

Did Dammit do any such thing?  Of course not. She twitched her tail, very self-satisfied, and pawed at my hand--claws outstretched--as I mopped up.

A last word about felines, lest you think I'd trap and sell them to a furrier or a dubious restaurant: Cats are beautiful and mysterious animals. I'm sure there is a good reason why they are associated with witches and warlocks, were worshipped by ancients and are the kings of jungles.  I'm sure there is a reason why Dammit defies me.

 I don't think I want to know.