“Comet! Damn it, no! Comet, get down from there! Comet — yowch! COMET!”
These words probably come out of my mouth five times a day. Aimed at the cat who’s on the spice rack, or who has gotten into the liquor cabinet, or who has attached herself to my leg with all four sets of claws and is hanging on like it’s the last lifeboat off the Titanic. Aimed at the cat who, as I have acknowledged to the world, is my favorite.
I have never known a cat like Comet. Throughout my life, I’ve had 16 cats. I’ve been close friends with countless more: office cats, family cats, friends’ cats, neighbors’ cats, lovers’ cats. And I have never known a cat who was this disruptive, this adventurous, this much of a troublemaker, this adept at getting into places she absolutely should not be, this fearless, this intractably bitey, this frantically demanding of attention. I’m used to having to rearrange my life and my space around my cats, and having to tailor these rearrangements for the specific cats who are in my life. But I have never had a cat who has been anywhere near as high-maintenance as Comet. Not even in the same ballpark.
Thus begins my latest piece for Catster, Hell’s Kitten: Learning to Love Our Play-Aggressive Cat. To read more about her
acts of terrorism hijinks, and how we’ve been learning to not just cope with them but admire and love them, read the rest of the piece. (Lots of pics.) Enjoy!