Lessons from a Defective Cat
It’s been a little over two years since Maxwell the Cat joined our family. Two years of wondering what phantom has him sprinting across the room for no apparent reason. Two years of trying (and failing) to keep him from waking me up just after midnight every blessed morning. Two years of playing “Where Did the Cat Pee This Time?”
Lord, but I hate that feline.
Hate is a strong word, but sometimes it’s not far off. If anything can spark a hotter or more instantaneous rage than stepping into a cold pile of cat barf on the way to the bathroom, I hope I never encounter it. More than once I have threatened to send Maxwell home with a friend—even offered to skin and debone him first.
Thus the first lesson I’ve learned thanks to Maxwell: some people—quite understandably—don’t appreciate such macabre humor as much as I do.
Last week turned up a fresh new kitty horror. We built one of our first fires of the season in the library room fireplace, and I sat on the couch to read. An hour later, I stood to discover that the cat had left something—I dare not speculate exactly what—brown and sticky on the blanket I’d been sitting on. Only now, the hot pile was also smeared onto the butt of my jeans and the tail of my flannel, not to mention on other parts of the blanket and couch cushion. If Maxwell had been within arm’s reach, I would have sent him flying into the embers.
It goes without saying that I had to change clothes, clean the couch, and throw the blanket in the washer. When I came back in, Maxwell lay curled up, purring, with his back to the fire in the very same place I’d been sitting ten minutes earlier.
Did I mention that I hate this animal?
Except that I don’t. Not really. Because Maxwell is among the most guileless creatures on the planet. His need to be around people is practically dog-like, as is his fondness for snuggling. If you step on Emmett, our other cat, he will run away to sulk for hours and possibly leave a revenge poop in some hard to discover space on the carpet. Do the same to Maxwell, and he will hop three feet away and roll over on his back in hopes of a tummy rub. He is perhaps dumb as a brick, but he’s about as happy and good-natured as a pet can be.
All of which suggests that my hatred is perhaps not Maxwell’s spiritual issue, but my own.
That isn’t to say that I don’t get angry with the cat. A day after the couch incident, I saw Max crawl into the litterbox only to pee directly over the side onto the floor. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I know words were spoken.
Still, I am trying to remember that, for better or worse, I am among those responsible for the care of this creature. He doesn’t consider the moral implications of his actions, nor does he wallow in guilt. He just does his cat things. If I fly off the handle, he won’t understand, and it won’t change what he does. My anger only causes more anxiety, which rarely produces good behavior in any species. If I want the best out of Max, I have to be kind and forgive, and I have to accept him for who he is. I have to love the purring fur ball on my lap more than I hate the skittish Picasso of excrement that he can sometimes be.
Like I said, my own spiritual issue.
It’s not a far leap to understand how such attitudes translate into interactions with other humans. We spend so much time trying to coerce or control, especially those closest to us. In the end, however, what holds us together is not how lovable we are, but how loving we are willing to be toward one another, even at our worst.
Maxwell ran into the garage today while I was on my way out to check our Christmas decorations, and I couldn’t catch him before he crawled under the workbench. I set to work cleaning the storage room, and half an hour later he bolted out—straight into the pile of leaves and dirt I’d just swept into the center of the floor. I had to dust him off before I tossed him back inside, then sweep everything up again.
I hate that animal. But I’m also learning to love him.
