The Tragedy of Three Rotten Cats

Shakespeare.  The Tragedy of Macbeth.  Act 4, Scene 1.

Setting:  A cavern. In the middle, a boiling cauldron.

Thunder.  Enter the three Witches.

First Witch: Thrice the brinded cat hath mewed.

Mew.  Mew.  Mew.

There is a Rotten Cat staring at me.  The Others are here as well.  Staring.  All Three Rotten Cats are here in this room with me.  All of them.  With me.  Just staring.

My Sister hates when all Three of them are in the room at one time.  She says it’s disturbing.  It is.  When all Three are together, they just perambulate about looking like they’re silently plotting evil, using their telepathic powers to communicate.  They skulk at me.  Sometimes, they sit in a circle and look like the Macbeth Witches.  Any day now, I expect to hear them speak:

Double, double toil and trouble;

Fire burn, and cauldron bubble…

I called Fab Husband to the room.

Me: “Can you make Cat Two stop doing that?”

He: “Doing what?”

Me: “He’s looking at me.”

He: “He loves you.”

Me: “Make him stop.”

Fab Husband also pointed out that Rotten Cat One is on the table.  Again.  Cat One is always on the table.  Cats are not allowed on the tables and counters in this house.  Clearly, Cat One has not read that memo.

A relative asked me recently if I minded the cats on the table.

“Let me put it to you this way,” I said…”Cat does his business in a box.  Cat walks in business box.  Cat then walks on my table.  Therefore, Cat has now done his business on my table.”

So, yeah…I mind.

I am convinced that Cat One does this to irritate me.  I can tell by the way he looks at me.  Cat One is not stupid.  He knows the rules.  He knows he is not allowed on the table.  He does it to irritate me.

These are some of the other things that the Rotten Cats do that make me love hate love them.

They mew.  Loudly.  At five o’clock in the morning.  This means they want breakfast.  Now.  They do this despite the fact that there is still food remaining from dinner.  Rotten.

Cat One sits and stares at the ceiling fan in our bedroom.  This means he wants it to turn on and blow cool air on his Fat Self.   If we turn on the fan without him in the room, Cat One comes running, takes a flying leap onto the bed, and promptly goes to sleep.

We keep water for the Witches Cats in the kitchen.  We also keep water in our bathroom.  I do not remember why; it’s just what we do now.  Cat One will sit at the upstairs bowls and mew until someone comes to fill the bowls with cool, clean water.  He will do this despite the fact that there is perfectly fine cool, clean water already in the bowls.  Cat One likes his water fresh from the faucet.  Spoiled Rotten.

Cat Three mews.  A lot.  He mews at his reflection in the mirror.  He mews at blank walls.  He mews at the air.  We do not know why.  But he mews.

All Three Rotten Cats engage in a game we call Running Cats.  In this game, they run.  They run fast and they run loud.  They run from the bottom floor, up the stairs, slither commando-style under the baby safety gate and hit the living room in a ball of black fur.  (Yes, we have a baby safety gate for our four year old.  Still have her on a baby monitor at night, too.  Don’t judge.)  They proceed to run in a circle around the main floor, predictably losing traction when they hit the uncarpeted kitchen floor.  At least one Rotten Cat gets left behind here – Cat Two, the Small One – because he just isn’t heavy enough to create enough friction to proceed.  The Other Two have by now raced up the second flight of stairs, under the second baby gate, and blasted headlong into the first wall that they encounter.  The thud is painful to hear.  (We often wonder if the frequency and force with which the thud occurs has anything to do with the Rotten Cats’ collective inability to learn.  Jury is still out.)

Cat Two, now left out of the Running Cats game, turns to snacking in the kitchen.  He drinks water from his paws, never directly from the bowl.  He also will not eat a single pellet of “kitty noms” without first removing it from the bowl, swatting it around the kitchen, and pouncing on it as though it were live prey.  He scoots those things EVERYWHERE.  Kidzilla and I step on them.  We do not enjoy this.  Cat Two does not seem to care.

Rotten Cats are not permitted to sleep on our bed.  They blatantly ignore this rule.  Cat One sleeps on one particular corner (the one closest to the fan, of course) at Fab Husband’s feet.  Cat Two spent the entire nine months of Zilla’s gestation sleeping right next to my belly.  Between the size of my belly and Zilla’s midnight drum concerts, I’m surprised he made it through the pregnancy alive.  He now generally sleeps under the bed.  Cat Three also sleeps under the bed…until the moment Fab Husband gets out of bed for any reason.  As fast as the man is on his feet, Cat Three is in his spot, gets comfortable, and goes to sleep.  When Fab Husband returns to the bed, Cat Three proceeds to gloat emphatically until Fab Husband has to forcibly remove said Cat if he wishes to go to sleep.  Cat Three proceeds to complain.  Loudly.

Cat One waits for Kidzilla outside her bedroom door every morning and mews at her if she does not get up promptly to begin getting ready for the day.  Once Zilla is mobile, Cat One accompanies her to the bathroom where he supervises toileting and tooth brushing procedures.  Cat Three supervises Kidzilla’s evening bath in a similar manner.  Cat Two does not participate in Zilla’s activities; we think he is still trying to figure out how she got here and why she is so loud.

Cat One is convinced that every time a can opener is used, there is canned tuna involved.  All Three Rotten Cats will come running when Cat One hears the can opener, begging and mewing for tuna.  All Three will wait for the empty can to be placed on the floor for their dining pleasure.  Cat One eats a polite nibble.  Cat Three devours the rest of the nibbles.  Cat Two crankily abstains.  (Not sure why he shows up if he isn’t going to eat anything…)   Sometimes the can does not contain tuna – sometimes it is beans, or tomato paste, or whatever.  On these occasions, we must turn Three Crestfallen Rotten Cats away from the kitchen.

When Fab Husband sits at the dinner table, Cat Two will hop up on the adjoining chair and paw at Fab Husband’s arm until he pays attention to said Rotten Cat.  After attention has been given and Fab Husband resumes eating activities, Cat Two immediately resumes pawing for attention.  This continues until Cat Two finally gets bored and decides to go to sleep or hunt food in the kitchen.  None of this process results in Cat Two obtaining any food from the table…because he does not want it.  In fact, the Rotten Cats will only eat one particular kind of cat food.  And canned tuna.

All Three Rotten Cats will sleep on whatever article of Zilla’s clothing or toys they can find.  All Three also sit politely in her bedroom while we read our stories and snuggle on the rocking chair before bed.   When Zilla moves from the rocking chair to her bed, she says, “All Cats Out” and the Rotten Cats proceed to parade out the door and wait for the Parents to join them.

Any one of the Three Rotten Cats will curl up on my feet at precisely the moment I realize I am not wearing slippers and wish that my feet were not cold.  This is a pretty good arrangement…until I’m ready to get up from my seat and then whichever Rotten Cat is serving Slipper Duty refuses to move and complains loudly at me for rousting him.

If nothing else, the Rotten Cats provide hours of entertainment.  I would post a picture, but they’re busy right now.  They’re playing Running Cats.

Zilla and I fell in love with a picture of a Potentially Rotten Kitten posted on an adoption site we happened across yesterday.

Fab Husband says we are NOT getting another Cat.