When he first hopped down, the cat gave the stove an angry glare, and immediately realized that something was wrong. He licked his foot once or twice, put it back down, and found that the discomfort had not subsided. Suspecting it was the floor involved in this trickery, he hopped up onto the sofa and settled down with a smug stare downward. He had gotten as far as squeezing his eyes shut in self-congratulation when he realized that his foot still wasn't quite feeling right, and he wasn't quite sure who to blame. The poor cat was in hell for the rest of the afternoon - not so much because of the pain, but because of the horror of having his whole house seem to turn against him. Shane now has a bit of a limp, though he wasn't seriously injured in the .00000000045 seconds that he spent on the stove top. He has, however, been avoiding the entirety of the upstairs ever since.
Shane may not be our brightest cat in the bunch, but he's not alone in having thoroughly embarrassed himself in close enough proximity of his people to become the subject of a humorous story. Charles, who we've had the longest, has given us many such moments. Curiosity once got the better of him in regard to a scented candle. Did you know that whiskers curl when they're exposed to an open flame? He had a charming (if not slightly effeminate) look for about two weeks after the incident, and has forever distrusted the smell of lavender ever since. He also is our chronic hairball hacker, though he never seems to need to throw up unless he is surrounded by plush furnishings or electronics. He has managed to throw up on every blanket in the house, a video game system, three different baskets of clean and folded laundry, a VHS Disney movie, and our push-button telephone keypad. (Ok, now that I think about it, this is probably less a humorous story for me to tell than it is for him. I can just hear him around the old milk bowl, "Hey guys, you'll never guess what I puked on today! Heh, heh, heh...")
Our other two cats, Princess (who has also been known as Papa, Little, Kansas, Flower, Lucky, Candy...) and Nimrod (I'm not making it up - it means 'mighty hunter' in the Bible. Turned out to be more wishful thinking than prophetic insight..) have had their fair share of indignities as well. Princess is the only female cat in our house, and has all the typical traits of a girl. She's moody - one day rubbing against your ankles, the next hiding under the bed. She's also touchy, and gets her feelings hurt easily. Everyone in the house knows not to cross little Princess, and while the boy kitties vie to be with her, they also pay dearly for her attention. She has perfected the 'swipe and hiss' move, and wields it with a smile. Nimrod, on the other hand, is 100% enthusiastic little boy, and possesses no sophistication whatsoever. He burrows in the snow with utter abandon, achieves bath time poses that would make a yoga master jealous and a modest maiden blush, and will eat anything that doesn't eat him first. This is a cat that drinks from the toilet, sometimes even before my husband has finished using it. Not the smartest feline in the world, but good hearted at least, and never given to sullenness or fits of pouting.
Now comes the hard part - how do we continue to share our homes with these creatures, give them the respect they think they deserve, and not end up hurting their feelings by laughing openly at their misadventures? It's a delicate balance that must be found, my friends, but I think we can make it work. First off, it's important to try to cover your mirth as much as possible in the immediate aftermath of a cat catastrophe. Make them think you're having a coughing attack, or chuckling over something on the television, for example. Sometimes I have gone so far as to purposely re-enter a room, often while clearing my throat or shuffling loudly, to convince one of my cats that I wasn't present for his or her most recent descent into indignity. Also, never, repeat stories of their shortfalls in front of them. They may look like they're not offended, but an unpleasant consequence will ensue.
Of course, that's not to say that cats don't also play their part in this balancing act. Our beloved pets join in the subtle subterfuge by adopting one of two attitudes after doing something stupid. First, there's denial, most often in the form of, "It wasn't me," but occasionally stretching so far as to claim, "It never happened." If outright denial is an impossibility, the second choice that cats have is to pretend like they were in control the whole time. Somehow they ask us to believe, through their body language and the very attitude they ooze, that they really and truly meant to fall off the TV, run into the patio door, incriminate themselves by getting their nails caught in the curtains, leap into the bathtub full of water, or otherwise look silly or act like a dog.
With all of our pretenses - no matter how much we pretend to have not seen our cats behaving strangely, and no matter how much they claim that they meant to do it - there will still be the awkwardness of knowledge hanging in the air. There is only one saving grace - the silent dialogue that has gone on between felines and people for centuries. We know that the expression 'curiosity killed the cat' has won more America's Funniest Home Video Prizes than even the classic and timeless groin shot. Let's face it - cats do funny stuff all the time, even if they never admit it, and we claim not to notice. Much as they try to convince us otherwise, we know that they're often clumsy and prone to making poor choices, and we forgive them for it so we may co-habitate peacefully.
More importantly in this dialogue, cats know in their heart of hearts that we are silly, ignorant creatures, widely given to exaggeration and even hallucination, probably to protect ourselves from the fact that their species is so superior to ours. They know, in their heart of hearts, that we are unreliable, unpredictable, and totally unable to discern the subtleties of advanced physics, nonverbal communication, reverse psychology, and balls of yarn, but they forgive us for it so we can co-habitate peacefully. It's a hard job, but someone's got to do.
(P.S. - before I could even finish this blog post, Shane took a flying jump at a shadow in the corner, and ended up falling into the narrow space between the wall and the couch, knocking over the lamp in the process. I sputtered to cover my laughter with a cough. He struggled out, licked his leg nonchalantly once or twice, and then swaggered off and is now alternating between eating the corner of my calendar and the telephone cord. Apparently my coughing fit wasn't convincing enough, and I must be made to suffer.)
