“Not Allowed.”
If cats have nightmares, those are the words that chase Jack through a dark and scary forest where malevolent tree branches snatch at his passing kitten fur: “not allowed, not allowed, NOT ALLOWED.”
But I’m fairly convinced that a conscience is a prerequisite to nightmares.
I’ve lived with cats all my life. I’ve had silly cats, sweet cats, boring cats, and buddy cats.
Jack is my first naughty cat.
Before Jack, I thought that Naughty Cats were the result of a Bad Upbringing. Now I find myself eating those unspoken words of “your cat has not been well-disciplined” (sensitive readers can replace “disciplined” with “taught” or “trained”) and find my mind racing with thoughts of “where did I go wrong?”
I mean what sort of cat lover makes a special trip to Home Depot just so they can have a water-filled spray bottle in every room of the house?
Obviously, I am a terrible person.
One day, after fishing an ash-covered Jack out of the fireplace (again), I was bemoaning my abysmal cat-parenting skills and my husband said “Did you teach Jack to like cantaloupe?”
It’s not as odd a question as it might seem to the casual observer.
It started one day when I was parked in front of the television, a plate of freshly diced cantaloupe at my side, watching a movie. Jack was yammering (more than usual) and repeatedly jumping up on the side table where the cantaloupe sat. After multiple scoldings and several bouts of tossing him off the table (and for the sake of peace during the rest of the movie), I threw a bite of cantaloupe on the floor and grumbled “you don’t want it.”
Jack gobbled it up and screamed for more. I discovered that he would eat cantaloupe for as long as I would feed it to him. Yes, my sweet Jack-Jack, who barely gives a dismissive sniff to pre-packaged cat treats, loves cantaloupe.
And I had nothing to do with it.
I comfort myself with that thought every time I see Jack trying to suss out the best way to catch the ceiling fan.
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