Lucille Dumbrava

Smudge is in his bad-cat mode today. So far, he's jumped on the table, knocked over my tea cup, given Pansy a bite on her tail to make her mad enough to chase him, and during the chase skidded to a stop by crashing into an end table and making the stack of books on it fall all over the floor. He's scratched my good chair instead of the scratchy bar and eaten from Taffy's bowl. If he could scream out loud, "Pay attention to me!" he would be doing it.

The amazing thing is that this is not his usual modus operandi lately. He has been trying so hard to earn "Good Kitty." He stands over one of the other cat's bowls, his tongue almost darting out to take a bite, and then he gives a huge sigh and pulls his eyes away from the food long enough to look at me. The strain in his body to keep from snarfing the treats in the bowl is almost palpable; every muscle is tense. I rush over and pet him, scritching his ears just the way he likes it, and assure him he is wonderful. Then I lead him to his bowl and he gobbles it down. Or he'll stand next to my recliner and put one paw on the silk fabric, then, he'll stand there until I praise him for not scratching.

But, today, he's mad. Mad because I've praised Pansy for using the scratchy bar, told Taffy she is wonderful for not swiping at Pansy with her paw as she passes by. Not only must he be praised for being good; today, I must not pay any attention to the others. Right!

This is the Smudge of old, months ago when he first came to the house. Then, this was kitten vandalism; now, he is feeling his grown-up macho self and is determined to be a hooligan.

He has the size. I've never owned a cat like him. He weighs 16 pounds, two pounds under Tiger at his heaviest. But, where Tiger was stocky (read: bordering on obese), Smudge is a long, tall, lean, well-muscled male cat. His paws are of average size, but when he makes bread on me, it feels like the push of a human hand. He's a leaner, and if he leans on small furniture or on anything with wheels, it moves. There is a lot of power in his movements, what you would expect from a much larger animal. I cannot help but admire and be a little amazed at his strength.

And usually, he contains this power, saving it for playtime, when a single bat of his paw will send a stuffed toy the length of the living room and half-way through the dining room. When he is being sweet, I only feel his enormous size power when he jumps on me when I am in my recliner or in bed. Sometimes, then, it feels like I've been hit full-on with a medicine ball. But, as soon as he settles down, he is all gentleness, licking my hand, peering sweetly and intently into my eyes.

Not today. Today, the full thrust of his strength is devoted to being a hellion. I warn him several times. I scold him. Nothing works. Now, I must perform the most odious task, the height of discipline in this house. I scoop up his protesting body and march down the hall to the bathroom. In he goes. No toys, no kibbles, nothing - but a nightlight, soft towels to pull down to sleep on, a mirror to pat, challenge, and feint attack. I close the door, and behind it, I can hear him whimpering, his suddenly soft voice coming out in little gasps.

Outside, I cannot concentrate on anything. I resort to standing in the hallway, watching the hands of my watch go round till five minutes have passed. Then I throw open the door, scoop him up in my arms, and whisper to him. I tell him I know he is a good boy and that he's sorry. He snuggles into my neck and gives me tentative licks under my chin.

When I put him down on the floor, he is glue to my legs. He has started his "I'm sorry" cry, making little sob-like sounds. I know he won't stop these until he feels completely forgiven, so I head for my chair, and before I can comfortably seat myself, he is in my lap. The sobs continue, and I spend the next few minutes settling him down, scratching his ears and rubbing his jaw. Finally, after licking my hands and face (good lick-licks as he's learned to do instead of cat love-nips), he jumps down and goes off in search of his sisters to make up to them.

He may be a big strong macho cat on the outside, but he's a little sweet softy inside.

Lucille Dumbrava is a retired Teacher/counselor whose love of cats and love of writing started when she was a child. Many of her stories about the cats in her life have been collected in a book entitled CatHouse, now available from www.bookstandpublishing.com, Amazon, Alibris and local Northern California bookstores. You can also order directly from Lucille. She can be reached at Email