She Loves Me

In the past week, I have learned something very valuable about human nature: People can change.

OK, this is not entirely correct in light of what I learned. More accurately, cats can change. But really, when it comes right down to it...aren't cats people too? People who sleep 23 ¾ hours a day, poop in a strategically-hidden box, and every so often hack up a chunk of fur the size of Mama Cass? I think they are.

As some of you know, John and I have two cats, Fergus and Claire. From the beginning, Fergus has taken to me and Claire has taken to John. We didn't plan it that way, it's just how it ended up working out. On the first night we had the kitties, Fergus, a little orange lump barely bigger than the palm of my hand, fell dead asleep on my chest and snored so loud that the air blowing out of his tiny pink nose gave me windburn. From that moment on, I was a pile of Jell-O in his soft, white-mittened paws.

Claire, though, proved more challenging. With John, she's always been affectionate, hiding all day and only emerging when he comes home. She lets him pet her, scratch her, brush her, kiss her, hold her, snuggle with her. With me, if she deigned to show herself at all in my presence, she stiffly suffered my love for as long as she could take it -- usually about six seconds -- before fleeing the room in terror.

This could very well all go back to a traumatic incident in Claire's childhood. An incident in which I, admittedly, played a key role. We only had the cats for a few weeks, and I was vacuuming the kitchen floor. At this time in their lives, both cats were fearless and curious kittens, and the vacuum intrigued them more than scared the cat-piss out of them. Anyway, I got a little too close to Claire with the hose attachment, and her tail got sucked up in it. In my defense, she has a very long fluffy tail, and I of course didn't mean to suck it up.

She instantly started shrieking, and when I realized what I'd done, I freaked out. I turned off the vacuum cleaner, thereby setting her tail free, though now it was all frizzy and smelled of Hawaiian Paradise Carpet Fresh. Claire whipped around to make sure everything was still intact and, a millisecond later, was gone -- under the bed, the desk, behind the couch. And in many ways, she never returned to me. Sure, she did come out of hiding at one point to try to maul me in my sleep, but that doesn't count. What does count is that, after the incident with the vacuum, she never felt entirely comfortable with me.

Until last week.

My mom FedExed us a box of fresh vegetables from her garden. And Ms. Claire loves boxes. I mean, really loves boxes. All the expensive cat toys in the world don't thrill her as much as a plain old cardboard box. She will play with it, inspect it, sit in it, lay in it, sleep in it. If we moved the food dish closer, she'd eat in it. If we moved the litterbox closer, she'd figure out a way to projectile poo so she wouldn't have to leave it. That's how much she loves boxes.

Though she's had many to enjoy over the years, this box my mom sent (once I removed the vegetables) made the usually-serious Claire as giddy and playful as a puppy. Even Fergus, who doesn't enjoy boxes like his sister, though he's often tormented her by sitting in them when she gets out to pee, knew better than to mess with Claire's new box. This piece of cardboard seems specifically designed for her: it perfectly fits her body. As far as she's concerned, this box is the greatest gift she's ever been given.

Since this momentous event in her young life, Claire has been opening to me. She no longer runs at the sight of me. She no longer cowers in fear when I reach out to stroke her. She no longer rolls her eyes when she hears me speaking lovey-dovey kitty-speak.

Most surprisingly, and satisfyingly, I woke up to the sound of her meowing the other night at about three in the morning. I went to her, to make sure everything was OK in her box, and it seems she just wanted a little love from her Little Daddy (and yes, John is Big Daddy). After a few minutes of petting and calming words, I went back to bed...and guess who followed me? Claire jumped right up in bed beside me, snuggled against my side, and as I fell back asleep, I reached my arm out to hold her. Most miraculously of all, she let me.

I don't know what brought all of this on, but clearly the arrival of the box signified something huge to her. Or maybe she's finally forgiven me for the vacuum cleaner mishap. Or maybe she's growing up. Or maybe I am.

Fergus, for his part, has taken all of this in the gentlemanly stride I've come to expect from him. He's had no problem "sharing" his Little Daddy, and I ensure that he and I still have plenty of cuddle time. If anything, I suspect he's slightly relieved that Claire has managed to win a piece of my heart: that's a few minutes less each day that he has to suffer copious showers of kisses and adorable kitty-speak.

Throughout all of this, though, I know Ms. Claire will always be John's girl. She still waits for him at the back door at the end of the day. She still cries until he lays down on the floor with her and rubs her belly. She still hops in bed with him when the alarm goes off to receive her morning dose of Big Daddy.

But now I know that somewhere in that feline heart, I have a place. And that thrills me more than all the cardboard boxes in the world.