Cat Fight (LynnK)

No, not that kind of cat fight.

This is a battle for territory on an epic scale. Female vs. Feline. At stake: A Chair.

Not just any old chair. Well, it’s 8+ years old, but still in pristine condition. This is a quality La-Z-Boy that lifts up or reclines at the push of a button. It is also my work station. Bookcases and tables holding printers, research materials, modems, a small stereo–-well, lots of stuff–-encase the chair in a makeshift alcove.

There’s also a footstool. The TV is directly in front of me. The phone is within reach. Most important, my laptop sits on a sturdy plastic table with curved legs that slip under the chair, putting the keyboard directly in reach. Best $40 I ever spent.

A goodly portion of my life is passed in this chair.

And the cat wants it for himself. Never mind that he has a four-level cat tree, a padded sleeping cubicle, my bed with its goose-down comforter, and a plush window seat to nap on.

Let me be clear about two things. Lymond is not destructive. Furniture is safe from his claws, which he sharpens on a sisal pyramid. The ugly coverlet and cushion on the chair are protection against my own tendency to spill tea or Diet Cranberry Juice when I’m ensconced there. But except for a 20-year-old office chair mainly used to plop groceries on before I put them away, it’s the only chair in this small apartment. And it’s mine, I tell you. Mine!




Yet here I am. Possession is, I am told, nine-tenths of the law.




True, the cat sleeps on the chair at night. Fine. He can have it any time I’m elsewhere. But just try to dislodge him when I’m ready to get to work. Talk about your passive resistance. Gandhi would be proud.

A cat that doesn’t want to move makes itself into a dead weight. This one is maybe eleven pounds, probably less, but he’s nearly impossible to budge. He twines into a position where there’s nothing to get hold of.

Worst of all, he knows by now that I wouldn’t do anything to hurt him. Used to be I could trill “Up! Up! Up!" while lowering my derriere toward the cushions. With that size of missile coming at him, he scampered in a heartbeat.




So would any sane critter. Her left butt-cheek alone is bigger than I am!



Not to mention that he’s gone all sarcastic. What happened to the sweet widdle puddytat I used to live with? Could he be getting old and cranky like...er...me?

Nah. Just stubborn and wily. When I manage to dislodge him, he lurks nearby, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. Or slink. This is true. The moment I start to rise, my backside barely lifted, he insinuates his furry self between me and the chair. I never see him coming, but I feel him slide under me like a Selkie.

Navy SEALs call it Insertion. Lymond could teach them a thing or two about risking life and limb to claim Hostile Territory.

Which is why I make a point of gathering all needed items, including a back-up glass of water and a snack, before planting myself on enemy cushions. If I have to leave, even for a few moments, he’ll have settled in and be curled up with his cat-snoot buried between his paws, as if he’d been there, fast asleep, for hours.

Just who does he think he’s kidding? Without mercy, I lever him off the chair. Listen up, Lymond!. If I don’t work, no Fancy Feast! The link between my writing and his dinner is not yet clear to him.

But he’s a past-master of the suck-up tactic, supper-wise. Even now, way after midnight as I try to type this, he’s planted himself on my lap in the small space between me and the computer, purring up a storm. Hard to resist a purring pussycat. And doesn’t he know it?

I suspect this is one of those 100-year-wars standoffs, with few actual battles and neither side yielding an inch. But being bigger and in control of the food-supply, I’m certain to win most of the skirmishes.

Pyrrhic victories, though. Whenever I dispatch him to one of his many comfy alternatives, he becomes a real Drama Diva.





Lymond in Exile







And I become a simpering patsy.

The ultimate cat weapon: Guilt.