Dena Harris: Lessons in Stalking

Luckily, I’m one of those rare individuals able to remain composed in the face of any emergency.

I demonstrated this skill when our cat became ill. We heard her firing off bazooka-rounds of sneezes. My husband and I came on the run. I took charge.

“Oh my God, she’s dying!” I wailed, flinging myself on the cat and wrapping her in a stifling embrace. “Dying!” I started to cry.

My husband ran a slow hand down his face. “Maybe she just has a cold,” he offered.

I raised a bewildered cat to eye level. “Tell Mommy where it hurts.”

My husband took the cat from me and examined her eyes, ears, and nose. “It’s probably just a cold,” he reassured.

“We’ll call the vet tomorrow.”

I remained doubtful but the cat was now hiding under the sofa, consciously suppressing her sneezes.

I called the vet first thing in the morning.

“Hello-I-have-an-emergency,” I said.

“Yes ma’am?”

“It’s my cat. She keeps sneezing.”

“Yes ma’am,” she said.

I remained silent, awaiting instructions.

Finally figuring out I expected her to say something else, the receptionist continued. “Um, is there any vomiting or diarrhea?”

My God, is this woman stupid? I would have had the cat at the emergency hospital at the first sign of vomiting or diarrhea. I took a deep breath and reminded myself to speak slowly, so she could understand me.

“No, it’s just sneezing. But it’s a lot of sneezing. She sneezed twenty times in a row. For five minutes straight.”

I waved away my husband who was trying to take the phone. As an accountant he has this hang-up about accurate numbers. I felt it more important to convey the gravity of the situation.

Dire possibilities, each worse than the one before, occurred to me. I burst forth with one nightmare scenario.

“Do you think she might be having an allergic reaction?”

I asked. “Maybe she has internal hives? I saw her scratching her ear earlier. How exactly would I treat internal cat hives?”

The receptionist did the only thing she could do, which was to put me on hold. She spoke cautiously when she returned.

“Ma’am, it sounds like an upper respiratory infection.

Pick up some alcohol-free liquid Benadryl ®and give your cat one milliliter per pound of body weight.* If that doesn’t do the trick in a few days, call us back.”

“Fine,” I muttered and hung up. No one cared that my cat was at death’s door. Even my husband was useless, tossing balls down the hall for the cat to chase. She was stoic enough to pretend to enjoy the diversion.

I trudged to the store and came back with the Benadryl ®.

“Grape?” my husband asked, examining the bottle.

“It was that or bubble-gum. Let’s just get it down her.”

He scooped up the cat, and I positioned the dropper in her mouth. One hour, three new droppers, and half a bottle of wasted medication later, we managed to get about an eighth of a teaspoon down her throat. She fled as soon as we released her. I went in pursuit to offer my apologies. I don’t care for grape flavor myself.

When I found the cat, my heart flip-flopped. There was white foam bubbling from her mouth. Even my husband paled.

“Call the vet,” he said.

I raced to the phone and dialed with trembling fingers.

I explained our beloved cat was now foaming at the mouth.

The receptionist giggled. I mentally planned how I would kill her.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she said. “Benadryl ®makes a lot of cats foam at the mouth. Don’t worry about it.”

“Benadryl ®makes a lot of cats foam at the mouth, but you didn’t think to mention that to me?” I wanted to be sure I had the facts right for my trial.

The receptionist sighed. “If it will make you feel better, why don’t you bring the cat in and we’ll take a look at her.”

I brought the cat in and the vet ran some tests. “Looks like a head cold,” he said. “I’m going to give you a prescription for something a lot like Benadryl ®. That ought to knock it out.”

My husband greeted me at the door as I returned. “What did the vet say?” he asked.

“He said the cat has a cold,” I said. My husband smiled.

“Not a word,” I warned.

He left without saying anything, but I heard him telling the cat it was now safe to sneeze.

He thinks he’s funny but I’ll have the last laugh.

The next time he gets a cold, I’m going to feed him the rest of the Grape Benadryl ®.

She’s stalking us again. It makes me nervous. Not the stalking part, but the fact that she doesn’t seem to be very good at it.

She stalks us right out in the open, inching toward us on her stomach in the middle of the hallway.

“What’s she doing?” my husband asks, looking over his shoulder. “Is she sick?”

“Shhhh!” I reprimand. “She’s stalking us. Be supportive.”

“But I don’t want to be stalked,” he whines.

“She needs to learn. Now act surprised when she pounces.”

Attacks are generally mild. A quick paw to the foot, a snatch at a pants leg and she’s off.

Sometimes she’ll stalk us from behind the sofa. It’s not a bad ploy, except we can see her tail sticking out. I draw her attention, while my husband sneaks up behind her.

“BOO!” he yells, jabbing at her hindquarters.

It may seem harsh, but she has to learn.

We’re not her only prey. She also stalks the plaid cotton mice we procure for her. She’ll spy one resting in the hall.

Every muscle tenses as she flattens herself on the floor, tail flicking. Body rigid, she’s a tightly wound coil.

When the moment comes—did the mouse twitch?—she leaps into the air. We watch her descend, fangs and claws bared in case of counterattack.

Then she’s on top of the mouse, spearing it with her teeth, viciously shaking her head. She notices us watching her and freezes. Snatching the mouse, she bounds away.

“Well done sweetheart! ” I cheer. I elbow my husband.

“Uh, way to go,” he stammers. “You the cat.” He glares at me.

“She’s not going to improve unless she’s told what she’s doing right,” I explain calmly. “It’s called positive reinforcement.”

He walks away mumbling under his breath.

Although the cotton mice are fun, we find the cat truly enjoys moving targets. We discover this when a fly gets into our home.

The cat is all business. Darting eyes, shortness of breath, bushy tail—as she stalks the fly I think that she’s finally coming in to her own.

But then, “Click-aaack-aaack-claaack.” Dolphin-like sounds emanate from her throat as she sits with arched back, staring at the fly buzzing above her.

My husband races in. “What was that?”

“That’s the cat.”

“What’s she doing? ”he asks. “Is she sick?”

“Maybe,” I say.

I question whether our cat will ever get the hang of this stalking business. My husband and I grow weary of acting surprised every time we’re attacked. The fly went on to lead a long and happy life. My hopes center again on the cotton mice. And I just saw several of them lying, almost hidden, behind the couch.

I think they’re waiting to jump out and yell “BOO!”

We sat the big brown mouse in the middle of the kitchen floor. The cat looked on disinterestedly. The mouse was a gift from our pet sitter; a sweet elderly woman who I’m sure had no idea the trauma her gift was about to induce.