Our cat, Posey, is definitely not the boss of us. I mean, sure, she has her ways of getting what she wants. And she has her ways of letting us know what she doesn’t want. And we like it when she’s happy… but she’s not the boss.
My husband gets up at 4:30 a.m four days a week for work. Posey greets him with an approving “mrrh,” and they head downstairs where he fills her bowl with a scoop of food. He turns on the coffeemaker and heater, too, which I reward with an approving “mmm,” because good deeds should be rewarded.
When he comes back upstairs, she races ahead and leaps up onto the bathroom counter to initiate the “waters” routine. Matt obliges by stopping the sink and filling it with a small puddle of water. She mrrhs and steps daintily in, careful to avoid the puddle, and begins to drink. Matt scritches her back, and she lets out another “mrrh!”—a little less approving, and more tolerantly annoyed sounding, but very much a part of the routine.
On the days where Matt doesn’t need to get up that early, Posey’s internal alarm still goes off. She starts making questioning little mrrhs that gradually increase in noise level and annoyed level, culminating in a scratch or two to the chair and a furious run back and forth with maximum thundering kitty hooves noise.
At some point we have to get up (the coffee maker won’t turn itself on) and she gives a simultaneously satisfied and annoyed mrrh as she races downstairs for her scoop of kitty kibble. The “waters” routine is anticipated by a racing ahead, and then she lies in wait for me to get up.
When I get up she greets me with a mrrh that clearly says, “About time!” She races ahead to cry plaintively at her bowl, having never been fed in days and days and weeks and weeks. When I give her a scoop she thanks me with a satisfied “mrrh!” and begins to eat.
Now she watches me and wills me to get back upstairs to fill the sink for more “waters.” If I linger, she begins to meow in increasingly annoyed mrrooww’s until I do head toward the stairs, at which time she mrrhs in a way that clearly says, “FINALLY!” She races ahead of me and we complete the circle of the morning with another filling-mrrhing-stepping-scritching-mrrh!-ing.
Often she’ll initiate playing by staring at us and plaintively meowing until we ask what she wants. We offer food, then waters, then outside, then toys, waiting for her positive response of a yes mrrh. (“Mrrh!”) She allows us to offer various toys until we hit on the one she has mentally chosen—“Ball? No? Mousie? No? Vicious stringie? Yes? She wants the vicious stringie to hunt? Yes? Eek! Look out! There’s a vicious stringie!”
Sometimes she wants to go out, which she lets us know by racing in the loudest thundering kitty hooves possible to the back door and plaintively meowing. We open the door and wait. After a few moments we encourage her to decide in or out, and begin to count backwards from 3 to 1. She lets us get to one before she mrrhs in a sassy way and races out. Moments later she appears and plaintively meows until we open the door and step back so she can race in and mrrh at us in an annoyed manner for not anticipating her needs and opening the door before she had decided she wanted it open.
As the weather gets colder she honors us by allowing us to sit with her on our laps. We have to compete by calling her, patting our laps invitingly and clicking our tongues, but eventually one of us wins and gets a cuddle. We may or may not taunt each other. She lets us scritch her and then sits with her back to us, surveying the room, while we sit very still and enjoy her benevolence.
Like I said, she’s clearly not the boss of us. (Um, hey, don’t tell her I said that, though, okay?)
Juliana LeRoy wears many hats, including wife, mother, paraeducator and writer. She can be spotted around Windsor gathering material, or reached at
ml****@so***.net
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