A Man and His Cat

“You’re doing it wrong.”

It’s the third time that I’ve heard that since starting this project and every time the tone is a tinged with arrogance, confidence, and scorn. Did I mention how irritating it is?

I pull the screw out of the hole and twirl it between my fingers before recapping the steps in my head, trying not to glance down at the instruction booklet on the floor next to me. Like my harsh critic, whose eyes bore into the back of my skull, the instructions lay there, useless and accusatory.

An overly theatrical sigh behind me, shortly followed by the gentle ‘thump’ of fourteen pounds of muscle, fat, and fur landing on the carpet signals Cooper is tired of watching my folly. He walks through the minefield of screws, tools, and wood before settling himself under the familiar crinkle of paws on paper. He sits on his haunches and yellow-green eyes, dilated in the lowlight, stare up at me with such resounding disapproval that joyous thoughts of feline strangulation run rampant in my mind.

“Do you mind?” I say and the left haft of his whiskers rise ever so slightly in the telltale sign of a smirk. He studies me for several seconds before glancing at the shelf before me. His eyes float across the floor. He stops on something, nods to himself, and then glances back up at me.

“The screw by your foot.” I look down. Picking it up, I measure it next to the one I just removed. I wince the frustrated grind of my teeth and glare at him.

“The instructions said…” but he interrupts me.

“So you just follow directions because they told you to and not double check it?” He shakes his head. “I thought you were better than this…”

Before I can reply he turns with the inhuman grace and dignity all cats seem to have mastered, and saunters off, tossing a “you’re welcome” over his shoulder before disappearing into the kitchen.

“Don’t give the prick the satisfaction,” I whisper. The line comes from an 80s Clint Eastwood flick and it’s a mantra this relationship has forced me to adopt should I wish to keep a measure of control. It sometimes works…but not often. The satisfied crunch of dry cat food between needled teeth sound in the other room and, thoroughly chastised, I return to my bookcase building.

++

I get home, mind jumbled with news from the kick-in-the-teeth conversation with my soon-to-be ex. Not because of something either of us did but her promotion of all promotions that'll be taking her to Japan. It’s a gut punch that requires plenty of alcohol and a nonstop pity party of one.

“Deek,” Cooper calls as he ambles down the stairs, “the litter box is quite ripe. If it’s not cleaned out soon, I can’t make any promises that you won’t find nuggets parked in your shoes.”

He rounds the corner and frowns the way cats do when they know something’s amiss. “Did someone steal your catnip.”

My laugh his harsh and bitter; Cooper’s ears flutter at the sound.

“Sorry buddy,” I say and walk over to the couch. I plop down and expect another riposte about my human inelegance. Instead, he walks over and sits back on his haunches, staring up at me with nonjudgmental eyes.

“Tell me.”

I hold back a biting remark and find myself…telling a cat about the imminent breakup. Even after three years of conversations with him, sometimes I'm reminded just how surreal it all is.

When I’m done, Cooper hops onto the couch and, after spending a few minutes of graphically cleaning himself, crawls into my lap, glances up with me and…

…meows.

Of all the things a cat owner shouldn’t be surprised at is that. It doesn’t take away the pain of losing my girl but is a cooling salve on a bad burn. I offer him a bittersweet smile and, recognizing his good works, he nestles into my lap, kneading my leg until my free hand comes up to stroke his mottled gray and black fur.

We stay like that, as dusk gives way to night and the crescent moon our only light. No more words of frustration or despair. Just the companionable silence only a best friend understands.

My best friend: it sounds silly considering he’s a different species and takes pride in reminding me of my shortcomings as a bipedal homo sapiens. And yet, he’s been the one constant in my life these last three years. When life prevents them from being there; whether it be my friends or my family (who are a thousand miles from here), Cooper has a way of reminding me that I’m not alone and, as long as he’s around, I never will be.

“And they say dogs are a man’s best friend,” I whisper to my furry friend. His scoff is immediate and absolute.

“Only those who find their joy in being worshipped by their canine cretins.”

He couldn’t just leave well enough alone. And yet…I’m curious.

“So, what does it mean being a cat owner then?”

Cooper cranes his neck up at me and, with all sincerity, says, “It means that you are secure enough to understand and accept this dynamic.”

“Which is?”

He gives me a flat stare. “That I am the one to be worshipped and, make no mistake, I will be expecting my sacrifice come 3AM…per usual.”

I blink. Several times in fact. “What do I even say to that.”

My best friend re-adjusts himself before curling into a ball and delivering the stinger. “You’ll say nothing…and like it.”

I give him a light thump on the backside and he growls. He may be right, but I still smile because I think I got the better end of the deal.