Our Borrowed Cat

The unsuspecting wildebeest asleep in the living room

                Today Jersey’s story is in the spotlight.  Jersey, the only girl of the bunch, is the oldest at age fourteen.  She’s not really ours—we just have her on loan.  Two years ago when our daughter’s beloved orange cat, Uncle Monty, passed away, she borrowed Jersey from her boyfriend as a comfort companion.  Jersey, above all things, is the most soothing animal I’ve ever met.  She could be the poster child for Zen.  You can interrupt her nap, dangle her upside down (we would never really do this) and spin her in circles and she will never complain.  Instead she patiently waits for you to stop, then resettles in a soft, squishy, purring bundle wherever you set her.  She will rest on your lap for hours in contented ease, drawing out tension, anger, and grief until they completely dissipate and you feel one with the universe.  Even her body, with its square shape and black and white Holstein spots, leaves viewers with a soothing sense of pastoral peace.

                Two years later, she is still on loan but considered a permanent part of the family.  In that time, though, we’ve discovered one thing that can cut instantly through her calm demeanor—Frank.  Jersey hates Frank’s presence and will hiss, growl, and swipe at him...as we cheer her on.  Her angst is truly merited.  Why?  Because in Frank’s mind, Jersey is a grazing wildebeest and his job as a lion of the savannah (aka our beige carpet) is to take her down…daily…as many times as he can.  Frank is many things, the foremost being an excellent hunter, who can silently stalk and launch at her thigh before she even senses his presence.  Sometimes he forgoes the pounce and instead nonchalantly walks by and with a chomp plucks a chunk of Jersey fur before meandering away.  I truly believe Frank sees this as playtime, but Jersey is nurturing some pretty dark malice about it.

                At night they both prefer the same sleeping spot on my head.  That is where Jersey draws her line in the sand.  If she is there first she will not relinquish ground.  If Frank wants the spot he will just have to lie on top of her.  So he does.

                Of course we protect her the best we can and Frank spends a great deal of time in time-out or being held and loved.  We refer to this disciplinary technique as “corporal cuddling”—Frank hates it!  Mostly Jersey deals with him by hanging out on the neighbors’ patio.  By staring them down in their kitchen, she has them trained to give her treats 6-7 times a day.  They, too, love her calming presence as she naps by the glass door, occasionally waking to stretch and watch birds.  Their patio is her turf to protect and she will not let Frank have any of her treats or linger with her.  Apparently, wildebeests aren’t as much fun when they fight back, so she is fairly safe.  Until the evenings grew cold, we had a hard time rounding Jersey up for the night—she’s even trained her friends to let her in their house when it rains.

                As much as Frank irritates her, I think the feistiness he inspires keeps her active.  With her arthritis, she’d be happy to sleep and purr her way through old age.  Sometimes those pesky thorns in our sides are the hidden blessing that keep us going.