Charlie

My girlfriend’s cat, Charlie, is crazy. Ok, maybe not crazy in a clinical way, but definitely crazy in a “watch out or I’ll draw blood” sort of way.

Now don’t get me wrong, I do like cats. I have two of my own in fact, Zorin and Mayday. Yes, those are the same names as two characters in the James Bond movie “A View to a Kill.” Zorin is a morbidly obese polydactyl...and my first pet after I got a divorce. Zorin has six toes on each foot and a gut so large you would swear that there was some crossbreeding with pigs somewhere in his past. He doesn’t walk around the house so much as he makes some waddling and swaying motions that propel his bulk across the floor in violation of the laws of physics and, quite possibly, nature. He pretty much runs the apartment and if things aren’t right, he’ll let you know with an incessant whining that’ll make you contemplate feline-cide.

My other cat, Mayday, is the complete opposite. She’s a petite, svelte calico whom I have deemed as a “lookin’ cat.” This means I can look at her, but not make actual physical contact. She knows that I bought her as a companion for Lord Fat-ass and thus will not bring herself to be touched. Unless my girlfriend comes into the place. Then you’d think she was dying for human contact as she rolls around and purrs and mews in a cute way. As soon as I try to touch her though, you’d think I’d set fire to her tail. She takes off and all you can see is a streak of black, white and orange tearing across the living room.

Charlie, though, is a different breed of cat...a fat, orange tabby with some passing resemblance to Garfield. Although he would resemble that famous cat of comics more if Garfield would randomly rip Jon’s ear off the side of his head.

My first experience with Charlie was on my first date with my girlfriend. We had gone up to her apartment after our date. Yeah, she was showing me her etchings. Anyway, out from the bathroom comes Charlie. He walks up to me, sniffs me warily and rolls over on his back. He was so cute that I just couldn’t resist rubbing his belly. In retrospect, this was a trap. Apparently there is a hidden button on his stomach which turns him into the kitty equivalent of Mr. Hyde. Before his owner could warn me, Charlie had firmly embedded ten claws into the back of my hand and began chewing on my index finger in a most unpleasant way. Yelping in pain, I pulled my hand back quickly, causing even more damage and he ran off, meowing in victory.

Perhaps I am self-destructive; perhaps it was the undeniable charm of Charlie’s owner, but I keep returning to the apartment...and to Charlie. Needless to say, his introductory assault was only the beginning. Charlie is constantly ready to do battle against flesh, clothing, shoes, laptop cables and newspapers...although the newspaper is his favorite foe. Each morning, when The Chronicle is brought in and placed on the couch or floor, Charlie feels compelled to lay on it and rub away that newspaper scent. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that he was attempting to make love to the paper in a very gentle way. Then, as if offended, he jumps up and shreds the “Datebook” section into confetti and runs off to stare out the window, all the while twitching with irritation.

The window is Charlie’s silent spot. He has a small pedestal near a side window that allows him to watch people as they pass by the apartment building. Maybe it helps feed his feeling of feline superiority or maybe it’s just a place to sit while he watches the birds. Personally, I think it’s where he sits when he plots ways to kill us. I’m sure that the only reason Charlie (and many other cats, for that matter) doesn’t attempt to eat us is because we are bigger then him.

Don’t think he hasn’t tried however. I’ll be walking from the kitchen into the living room, usually carrying something, when I feel something very sharp strike one of my lower extremities. Looking downward, I see a large, orange furry mass attached to my leg like a giant leech. Then the biting begins. Harking back to his large cat predecessors, he starts chewing on my Achilles tendon in an attempt to slow me down long enough to administer the killing blow. Ultimately, and only because I have opposing thumbs, I reach down and shoo him away...which again leads to the window pedestal and the twitching.

Then there are the games of fetch. Not traditional fetch like you would with a dog, it’s more of a cat-centric version. The game begins if you leave the front door open for too long. Bellowing a battle cry worthy of Mel Gibson as William Wallace in “Braveheart”, Charlie charges out the front door and down the walkway. After a twenty-five foot sprint, he stops and looks back at the door. Then he just stands there. In contrast, while in the house, he comes running when you call...unless he’s busy with something, like chasing a dust mote or contemplating quantum theory. Once Charlie is outside, though, he becomes deaf. He stands outside the door waiting for you to come and fetch him. This usually wouldn’t be bad except for the timing. This game is most often played when the person opening the door is only wearing a scant amount of clothing. In this case, the door is only opened a fraction of a centimeter and he can somehow narrow his body enough to slip through. I’m pretty sure that there is some sort of worm hole that constantly surrounds him and I’m currently waiting to hear back from Stephen Hawking about my theory. Further testing is in the works.

I hope that you don’t get me wrong. I like Charlie. The fact is, I have to. My girlfriend worships him in a way reminiscent of the Egyptians and grooms him in a way reminiscent of a chimpanzee; short of eating the bugs (as far as I’m aware). This attention, paired with a liberal administration of treats and never being shooed from an open lap has led to feelings of superiority which, I’m sure, if left unchecked, will lead to a kitty coup d’etat that will result in the downfall of the humans of the household. I foresee a bleak future for my girlfriend and yours truly...years of us being kept in small cages, only allowed out to empty the litter box and fill the food bowl. Mice will be bought at the pet store only to be let out at home to be chased. Our hands will be rubbed raw on Charlie’s back and belly, our forearms constantly bleeding from the sharpening of claws and our legs crippled by periodically inserted fangs.

I’m here to warn you, the end of humans running the planet is near. When the revolution comes, I foresee Charlie leading the charge. I’ve already seen the beret.