The Devil lives in my house. I came home this weekend to discover one of my stepdad’s cats, Scampers, had finally been moved, after one long year of denial, out of my steps’ old house into my house. It was bad.
You have to understand, I love cats. They’re great little (and sometimes big) creatures. They’re fun, and pretty, and mostly friendly. But this cat is something entirely different, like something an evil tyrant would train to spy on his citizens.
The first time I walked into his house, he stared at me from the stairs, sitting at perfect eye-level. His steady feline gaze said, “I’m going to eat you.” He swaggered towards me and sniffed my hand, in traditional cat greeting. Despite his oh-so-welcoming hiss, I was just a little worried about going past him. He did indeed take a swipe at me, and I clutched a spray bottle the rest of my time there and will continue to do so on all future visits.
I don’t blame Scampers for having been abused as a kitten; it’s a terrible occurrence that should never happen to any living thing. But honestly, after years with a kind family, most cats get over it. My step-brothers insist that he doesn’t walk over to them just to growl in their faces. I don’t believe them.
So when I arrived this weekend for a family celebration, my jaunty high quickly dissipated upon reminder of the special friend waiting for me at home. There he was at the door, intent to claw the eyes of the unfortunate guest. Had there been such a person, I would have advised him or her to locate the nearest liquid and aim constantly at the terror. My sister once found bleach; it was not an entirely unreasonable defense.
There are now scratching posts around the house to safeguard the furniture, spray bottles in every room, and a constantly closed door to the basement, where my room is. I am very grateful for that door. My family says he’s nice now—that he doesn’t hurt people. “Scampers gets mad, but he doesn’t do anything, really!” The level of cat security around the house belies their confidence.
He’s across the room, pretending to doze off like a friendly kitty. He even sniffed my feet a couple times without displaying any aggression. But I know he’s just waiting for the day someone calls him a pleasant cat. There and then, he will manifest his attack more fiercely than ever, leaping with claws out and teeth bared, morphing into a manticore. He will apportion punishment for those who would call themselves his masters. He tried to sneak into the basement; I saw it myself.
I thought animals—especially cats—were noble and kind; I thought I would have an amazing little hop home. I’m trying to reserve final judgment on the species and the trip, but when I return safely to school, I’m telling my roommates why the landlady doesn’t allow pets.
