I Don't Negotiate With Terrorists
The Situation at Ground Zero:
Jace has a cat. I live with the cat. These are not the same thing. There is a cat living in my house. Technically, it is Jace’s cat. This distinction is important because whenever something adorable happens, it is our cat, and whenever I wake up at 4:16 in the morning because something with pupils the size of dinner plates has knocked a glass off the bathroom counter, it becomes very specifically Jace’s cat. I did not agree to the current arrangement.
Breakfast Is At Six
The cat has decided breakfast happens at 6:00 a.m. This is not based on when anybody wakes up, when Jace feeds him, when the sun comes up, or any recognizable system of timekeeping. Six o’clock simply exists somewhere inside his tiny walnut brain as the hour at which civilization must provide wet food or face consequences. At 5:43 this morning, I woke up because something was touching my face. Not scratching. Not biting. Touching. One paw. Very gently. Which is somehow worse. I opened my eyes and found him sitting approximately three inches from my nose, staring directly into me. I said, “No.” He blinked. I said, “It’s not six.” He blinked again. Then he put his paw on my mouth. I removed the paw. He put it back. This continued until I explained to him that I do not negotiate with terrorists. He left. For roughly thirty seconds. Then I heard something fall over in the hallway. I stayed in bed because there are principles involved here. Another thing fell over. Still no reaction. Then came a sound from the kitchen that I can only describe as expensive. Jace sat up immediately. “What was that?” “Psychological warfare.” Apparently that was not enough information, so he went to investigate. The cat followed him into the kitchen with his tail straight up, looking completely innocent. This is what bothers me the most. He knows. He absolutely knows.
Everything Is Leverage
Cats have somehow convinced everyone that they are mysterious creatures guided by instinct. They are not. They are tiny organized-crime figures wearing fur coats. Everything is leverage. Food is leverage. Doors are leverage. Sleep is leverage. Anything placed near the edge of a table immediately becomes leverage. Yesterday I watched him walk past an empty cardboard box, stop, look directly at me, climb inside it, and begin chewing the corner. I told him to stop. He chewed faster. I stood up. He ran. Ten minutes later he was asleep against my leg like nothing had happened. That is not affection. That is witness intimidation.
Jace Says He Likes Me
Jace keeps saying the cat likes me. This theory is based primarily on the fact that he sleeps near me. I think Jace is confusing affection with surveillance. The cat follows me into the bathroom. He waits outside the shower. He sits in the doorway while I get dressed. Sometimes I look up from my laptop and he is just there, watching. No blinking. No movement. Just collecting information. I have started turning the screen away from him. Jace says this is ridiculous. Jace has also never had the cat deliberately step on his throat at 3:00 in the morning, so his opinion has been entered into the record and dismissed.
Unfortunately, I May Love Him
The worst part is that I apparently love him. I know this because yesterday he sneezed twice and I spent fifteen minutes wondering if he was sick. He was not sick. He had put his face in a dusty shoe. I also know this because I have purchased toys for him despite the fact that his favorite possessions remain: -a receipt -a bottle cap -one specific shoelace -a cardboard box that formerly contained the toys The expensive mouse with feathers is untouched. The receipt has been hunted to near extinction. There is no justice.
For The Record
Breakfast was eventually served at 6:02. I would like it formally recorded that this was not a concession. I was already awake. The cat happened to receive food while I was awake. Those are two completely unrelated events. He ate half of it, looked at me, and walked away. Jace said, “See? He just wanted breakfast.” No. He wanted to know if I could be broken. And for the record: I can't. Tomorrow morning I’m hiding the glasses.