Dena Harris: Lessons in Stalking

“Um, maybe not,” I said, backing against the wall.

“I’ve got to get the rest of these suds off her,” he begged.

“Now please, come here.”

I reluctantly crossed the room. The cat flexed her right paw, extending and retracting the claw. I looked over to the corner where the kitten sat by the phone. She saw me watching her and immediately assumed the defensive Okinawa Crane pose from the Karate Kid movie. Back arched, she swayed on one foot, daring me to approach. No help there.

After ten minutes, four plastic cups, and a near-filing for divorce, we got the cat rinsed and released.

I turned to the kitten while my husband dabbed rubbing alcohol on his wounds.

“I’ll take defense, you play offense,” I told him, swatting his bottom in what I hoped was a gesture of encouragement. “Go get her, tiger!”

He abandoned dabbing and poured the alcohol over both arms, wincing.

“No. I’m not going back in.”

“But we can’t have only one clean cat!”

The look he gave me suggested I back slowly from the room.

I kept my distance from him, and the cat, who was none too pleased the kitten had escaped the watery ordeal. In fact, since this bathing episode I’ve awakened during the night with the feeling of being watched…or stalked. It turns out to be my cat perched beside me, waiting for the right moment to take revenge.

At least that’s my take. My husband says I’m imagining things and the cat has long since forgotten about the bath, but I’m not so sure.

I may have the kitten teach me that Okinawa Crane technique.

Just in case.

As a responsible pet guardian, I make sure to keep up on the latest recommendations and innovations in pet care by reading the ripped and wadded up back issues of cat magazines at my vets every six months when I herd the cats there for their biannual shots.

The most recent article I read discussed the importance of playtime with your feline companions. Pets, the article emphasized, love and rely on playtime with their owners.

It is a time of bonding and, if done regularly, will be something a pet looks forward to with excited anticipation every day.

See, here all along I had assumed our cats were happy stuffing their faces and then laying belly up in the sun for eight hour stretches. Little did I suspect that behind those full bellies and warm fur, kitty hearts were breaking because they did not have a regularly scheduled playtime with me.

I set about to remedy the situation.

Walking in the door with purchases from the pet store, I felt confident one of the bags I held contained the secret to unlocking shared fun for me and my cats. I started out simple with their favorite toy from kittenhood, the cotton mouse.

“Here kitties,” I said, dangling a bright yellow cotton mouse by its tail. “Come play.”

The cat scratched her nose in her sleep and rolled over.

I tried the kitten. “See the mouse? Want to get the mouse?”

The kitten sat up and yawned. I was encouraged. At least one of them was awake.

I dug in the bag and pulled out rubber cheese.

“Oooooh,” I exclaimed. “Look at the pretty cheese. Who wants to try and eat the pretty cheese?”

The kitten looked at the cat who gave a I have no idea but just ignore her and maybe she’ll leave shrug.

I clapped my hands. “Hey,” I announced. “You two are supposed to want to play with me, I bought all these toys, so guess what? We are going to play together. Now then.”

I pulled two identical candy-cane striped jingle balls out of the bag. Jingle, jingle. Jingle, jingle. They made a happy noise.

The cats lay back down and turned their backs to me.

“Aw, c’mon!” I begged. “One round of chase the jingle ball. Here, I’ll show you how.”

And so it was I found myself rolling a jingle ball down the hallway and running after to retrieve and roll it again 95 and again. I was panting when I returned to the cats after five rounds.

“See?” I huffed. “It’s not so…”

But they were gone. I searched the house until I found the cat munching nibbles out of the kitten’s dish and the kitten wedging herself under the dining room credenza in the hopes of hiding from me.

“Fine, you win,” I said, abandoning the toys in the middle of the floor. “We won’t play.”

Cut to two AM and my husband and I warm under the blankets and deep in our dreams.

Jingle, jingle. Jingle, jingle.

My husband rolled over. “Wass’ that?” he mumbled.

Jingle, jingle.

“I bought the cats some toys,” I said. “They didn’t like them. Just wait a minute and they’ll quit.”

Jingle, jingle. Jingle, jingle. Jingle, jingle. Jingle, jingle.

Annoying, but bearable. Bearable that is, until the cats discovered how much better the balls sounded on hardwood floors.

JNGLE JINGLE. JINGLE JINGLE. JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE

JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE.

Pause.

JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE JINGLE

JINGLE.

Two hours later and there was no end in sight. Not only were the cats enthralled with their new playtime of “Chase the jingle ball,” they also discovered a love of the game “Keep Away.” As in every time we got out of bed to take the balls from them, they hid them somewhere unfindable, sitting and staring at us until we returned to bed. Then they retrieved the balls and reinstated soccer practice on the hardwoods outside our bedroom.

It’s been a week, and I still can’t find those jingle balls.

The cats obviously have some secret hiding place they won’t divulge. But I know they’re out there. Because late at night, deep in the recesses of the house, drawing closer, we hear them coming.

Jingle, jingle.

Sometimes we hold each other and cry.

Those stupid pet magazines.

At first I didn’t believe there was anything living beneath our refrigerator. I thought the cats were just messing with us.

But I reconsidered. We live in a large historic home and have had our fair run of mice over the years. Usually they enter through the large wooden cupboard next to the stove where we store our Tupperware ®. But the cats weren’t paying any attention to the cupboard. Their attention was focused under the fridge.

They prowled along the baseboards, sniffing so hard their bodies shook with the effort. Deep growls emanated from their throats. They would lie on the wooden floor, tails twitching, just watching, waiting.

I became wary of going near the fridge. All I could picture was a small, furry rodent scurrying over my bare foot in the morning as I reached for the orange juice. I started standing as far back from the door as possible and leaning my body in to grab whatever snack I needed before hurrying to the other side of the kitchen. The cats observed my discomfort and acted accordingly.

The next time I entered the kitchen, both cats were lying contently. But as I neared the fridge the older cat tensed her body, and scootched on her stomach closer to the fridge, peering intently beneath. Her tail whipped back and forth in warning.

“What is it?” I whispered. “Do you see the mouse?”

The cat gave me a we-have-a-situation-here look that indicated I could help most by shutting up. I scurried out of the kitchen.

The next day the kitten joined in the fun. The minute I stepped into the kitchen she raced toward the fridge and plunged both paws underneath. I leapt onto the countertop.