With cabin fever season underway, it’s time to talk about the elephant in the room. Or rather, the very obvious cat. Who climbs all over me and anyone else who will sit still long enough. His name is Toga and it’s his job to be up in grills.
When I wrote this original post on his fury-inducing behavior, I hadn’t intended for it to be a two-parter. I’d complained about him enough (in blog form) to last his entire lifetime. Or at least until he developed a completely new habit I needed to tell everyone about. (Especially one particular Veletti (lil ging), who is my number one blog fan, but a hater of animals that can claw.)
Except that it wasn’t enough. Winter – all four months of it – has proved too much for his attention span to handle. All the days of not going outside and not sitting in front of a breeze (door or window forms) have caught up to him.
The Open Door Policy
IMO, the bratty behavior comes from power; perhaps fueled by a lack of exercise. As if trying to be in charge is his own feline form of an eating disorder – finding a way to gain control – but without the horror of actually giving up food.
With his terms, doors are to be left open at all times. Just so that he has the option of going in or out of them. Or looking through them like a round-the-clock creep. And when they are not at least cracked, all hell breaks loose. Depending on what side of the door you’re on. If he’s locked away, the claws literally come out. If you’re trapped together, he meows, louder and louder like an alarm that thinks you don’t hear it. He also looks me in the eye while doing it. Like any not-so-passive aggressive master would.
On account of Toga weighing 17 pounds when he should weigh 12 (in human terms, that’s like weighing 205 when you should 150; trust me, because of math), he’s on a diet. Because the vet said he had to be. Or rather, the vets because two of them insisted he eat his veggies and go running twice per day. So he doesn’t develop feline diabetes. Or become so large that his own legs can’t support him. Also, if he’s smaller, it will hurt less when he steps on my throat.
As per their recommendations, he gets an allotment each day, spread between breakfast and dinner times. And on the pro side of things, he’s getting used to the arrangement, which means he meows less and knows his dish isn’t getting filled until I’m dang-well ready. Which means that dinner is not at 4 pm.
In the Morning Time
If it’s serious sleeping time (10 am to 2 pm, 7 pm to 10 pm and certain hours during the night, probably), Toga wants nothing to do with me. Come my morning alarm, however, he’s ready for some serious attention. And bites my wrist braces until I get up. If I’m especially tired, it’s great motivation for getting out of bed, not hearing teeth against Velcro.
Then again, kitty cuddles aren’t so bad. Until they are. Hold on Toga, spring will be here soon, to save us both from each other.