The dog would just stay upstairs and sulk when Dawn was away, only coming down to feed. It’s like she took it personally. All the aluminum foil balls we used to keep the cat distracted were clustered under the sofa. I used a wire coat hanger to get them out, a baker’s dozen. When we move out there will be more found in odd places. Kind of like replacing large kitchen appliances and finding remnants of former owners’ lives trapped underneath, mainly kid things like letter magnets or teen lip gloss, always coated in fur.

Timmy has insinuated himself into every space or surface he can, forcing us to remove fragile things and basically kid proof the house. But the motion detector spray canister (which cost ~$50 and I felt stupid buying) actually works. The way they explained it to me is cats can’t be trained, but if they feel scared or unsafe due to environmental factors, they’ll keep out of places you don’t want them.

The canister scares the living shit out of Timmy (me too). It’s a burst of pressurized air like you hear from those industrial-strength tire-filling machines at gas stations. He immediately hits the deck, flattening himself, ears folded, then launches several feet in the air vertically. All this happens in under a second. It’s thrilling and entertaining and well worth the $50. (It’s called “SSSCat”—get it?)

Before, he’d pounce on the bookshelf and paw at a glass picture frame on the wall, causing the picture to cant sideways, to make a crude knocking sound against the wall. The pawing put my teeth on edge and the knocking was like a scene out of the Exorcist or the end of the film Hereditary. Rapid fire head knocking, basically. Demented, psych ward shit. That’s how I internalized it after weeks on end like this.

Perhaps the cutest thing is watching Timmy entertain himself with a foil ball and carry one in his mouth. Because he has some congenital condition where he’s always congested his breathing is labored and more so when carrying a ball (we’re supposed to give him nose drops, yeah right). We keep the foil balls in a basket with other cat/dog toys and both pets self-serve (also cute). I’ve buried the baker’s dozen of newly found balls in the bottom of the basket under other toys so it’s like a game at the fair for him to try to pry them out.

When Timmy’s playing with the ball in hunter’s pose his pupils go big and his tail wags fast. He keeps low to the ground the way wild cats do. He exhibits all the really anal characteristics I’ve seen in the best IT project managers. Nothing gets by him. He is fastidious, a real killer. Your typical house fly might last a day. Like the best editors I’ve known he’s finicky too, visibly bothered by imperfection. Hence the compulsive licking.

The clearance of the couch where all the balls go is maybe three or four fingers’ high yet Timmy can get most of his body right under there and reach pretty far to extract lost balls and boy, that’s fun to watch, how agitating it must be. As with little kids or hunting dogs it’s all about energy expenditure/regulation. Getting them to use theirs so they don’t destroy your house, getting them down for a nap.

I pick Timmy up like a sack of imported rice and clap him on the hindquarters the way some professional athletes tap each other’s butts in that bro kind of way that’s aggressive but not sexual. He goes pliant and doesn’t mind being held, but Timmy’s no cuddler. He rejects the idea outright, hurries off and licks. Irritated tail wagging, quick-jerk twitching.

Timmy also chirps the way some birds do as a kind of punctuation or tic. No idea what that means but it’s fun to imitate and I’ve gotten good at it.

I’ve been indoors basically for 10 days now with no walks. Chewing the furniture and pillows. Lost all my balls, running out of foil. Full moon rising: Dawn sent a photo and called it a blood red corn moon.

Categories: Humor, Memoir, prose

Tags: Creative Nonfiction, pacific northwest