I Can't Hide My Lyin' Eyes

Only those who have kept an adult female cat as the sole pet of the household know the hissing, spitting, insane territorial fury of said queen when her turf is encroached upon by an outsider. “Turf,” in cat terms, includes any part of the yard surveyable from the window perch. After being slashed by a lightning bolt of static electricity and silver fur whilst attempting to close the blinds some years ago, I have adopted the policy of running off any outdoor malingerers post haste.

This evening I set Sylvie’s food down in the kitchen and turned to see a feline shade cast upon the living room screen. Immediately I strode purposefully across the hardwood floor. “Hey you!” I called out. “Psst! Get!”

The gray cat didn’t move. I’ve seen her around the neighborhood before, distinctive spayed-kitty belly-bag swinging back and forth as she trotted across the street. Not sure where she belongs, but she probably belongs somewhere. Not here.

I glanced back to check that Sylvie’s face was still in her dish. I carefully opened the door and swatted at the cat sitting on the ledge of the window. “You! Get off. Git.”

“Mrowr?” the cat answered.
“Get off that,” I repeated. She hopped down and looked up.
“Go. Go home,” I said. She looked up.
“Get outta here!” I hollered and waved my arms. She bent down to wash a spot at the base of her tail.

I went back into the apartment, checked that Sylvie was still unaware of the feline presence outside the door, and grabbed a half-glass of water that was sitting on the table, with the intention of throwing it on the intruder. But it’s hard to throw water on someone who starts to do the happy-happy-joy-joy rub-my-tummy roll-over just because she’s so happy you came back.



So I sat down on the step and rubbed her oddly-shaped head. She purred loudly, rolled over a few more times, and tried to knead the cement as a sign of her affection. I explained to her that I couldn’t stay, that Sylvie would be very upset if she saw - if she even suspected - that we were together.



Yeah, that's my leg she's pressing against. I feel like a total cheat.

By this time, Sylvie had finished her repast and was in the living room washing her face. “Go home,” I said one last time to my new gray friend, and stepped back into the apartment.

Sylvie sauntered towards me. I shut the door so she couldn’t see her rival. But her eyes widened when I reached down to her, and she batted at me with a hard little paw. A queen always knows.