Tammy Swift column:
I need support group for meek cat owners
The Forum - 11/07/1999

I had to laugh when I saw the book title in the grocery check-out line: "Simple Ways to Train Your Cat."

What a joke. After years of consistent yelling, hand-clapping, and squirt bottle usage, I have only managed to train my feline to:

a. Use a litterbox, which he did before I got him.
b. Sleep. A lot.
c. Eat. A lot.
d. Eat plants only when I'm not there to scream at him.
e. Stride into the middle of the living room, sit down and insolently lick his private parts whenever I have company.

In fact, Sebastian has successfully trained me. When he wants, we play cat-and-mouse (with me as the rodent.) I even change the litterbox when he starts to complain.

Worst of all, he controls what time I get out of bed.

When I first acquired him, I made the critical mistake of feeding him first thing in the morning. Trouble is, Sebastian has his own idea of what constitutes "morning." He seems to believe that feeding hour arrives whenever his belly is rumbling and I am in my deepest, droolingest sleep.

The ritual begins.

First, he uses one paw to rhythmically - and firmly stroke my head, until my scalp is all but bald. He backs up for the jump. All 18 pounds land squarely on my chest, practically causing a lung to collapse.

Then he jumps on the pedestal night table, which I bought at an antique store for too much money. The tabletop protests angrily under his furry heft. Thunk. He neatly bats off the picture of mom and dad. Vlunk. There goes the alarm clock. Plat. The latest book I've been reading (Probably "Bridget Jones' Diary," "How to Eat Like a Thin Person," "The Beginning Yoga Handbook," or whatever title frequents the night stands of neurotic, perpetually searching, single, 30-something female types.)

I hear some spirited rubbing against the Tiffany lamp, which I have cemented down with a putty called Quake Hold. It is intended to protect collectibles against earthquakes, but it can scarcely grip against the determined tonnage of a portly, hungry house cat. So far, the Tiffany lamp has stayed put. But one of these mornings, the Quake Hold will give, toppling the costly stained-glass shade to the floor.

Meanwhile, I try to rouse myself out of Stage 4 sleep. I wave one arm ineffectually in the air and mumble into my pillow: "Geddoff Sebaddon! Geddoff."

He ignores my flailing limbs, leaping - a nimble water buffalo - back on the bed. The springs squeal as he stomps across the mattress and resumes scraping hair off my head. I submerge completely under the covers. He begins to meow - a loud, piercing blare. Noting no movement beneath the comforter, he bounds to the bottom of the bed and jumps up on the dresser. Ka-lunk.

A basket of jewelry hits the floor. Krunk. Another framed picture. Ba-lunk. A gift from my aunt - a valuable figure of a little girl with two geese - bounces across the carpet. In no time, the dresser's surface is as clear and uncluttered as a freshly Zamboni-d sheet of ice.

He uses the tall dresser to gain access to the Venetian blinds, which he proceeds to play like a spirited old geezer strumming the banjo.

By now, I am in full rage. "Se-BAST-ian!" I am screaming, as loud as my drowsy vocal chords will allow. "Get DOWN!" He will jump down, only to find a box of tissue paper to noisily rustle in or a closet door to creak open and shut. Finally, I can take it no more. I manage to pry open my gobby eyes and sit up. I slouch to the kitchen, then stare at the can opener, trying to remember how to use it.

As I fumble with his can of Seafood Delight, he turns into the sweetest of pets, bunching his body into a fat, kittenish ball, enthusiastically rubbing against my ankles, purring like a turbo-charged Rototiller. In the life of a cat owner, this is one of the few times we actually feel loved.

After he has nibbled a bit on his kingly repast, I will follow him to the bathroom. There, I will obediently turn on the tap, which allows His Highness to lap daintily from the spigot. Sebastian used to be a incorrigible toilet drinker, but since discovering the freshness of tap water, there been no turning back.

Training a cat? Sheer nonsense. I am currently running to the store for cat treats. There were only squishy snacks left, and he must have crunchy. I had better rush ...

After all, I don't want to be grounded.


(Swift is a features writer for The Forum. She can be e-mailed at: tjs@forumcomm.com)