Rufus: A Photo Essay.

I know, I know. You're tired of hearing about my cats. This is the last time, I SWEAR. (Although, we both know that's not true.)

This is Rufus. He's what we like to call an attention whore.

See that? I can freely rub his stomach. He's like a dog. Look at his face, he's totally into it. Claws: retracted. I walked away from this situation unscathed.

I could give you the whole back story on Rufus but frankly, it would take too long. And I don't have that kind of time. What with my new "growing blog" status, radio commentaries, and coffee shop readings, well– would you have the time? (Want my autograph?)I will say this, though: it's a story so full of mystery, intrigue, and fancy feast that it would make Truman Capote roll over in his grave.

Did I also mention that Rufus craves attention? Like right here:

Did I tell you about the whole face petting thing? What about the snaggle tooth?

Ah, yes. There it is. The tooth. You can rub it, he's totally into that. And Wilbur's ass. Of course.

THE END.

Our Asshole Cat Wilbur

(Oops, there’s a swear in the title. Is that offensive to children? I hope you’re not letting children read this, anyway.)

When our cool cat Rosebud ran away/got killed by a bear/went to France, we didn’t wait to replace her. Wait, that sounds horrible. I think I put this super positive spin on it, like “We have the space for another animal—let’s rescue one!” (I need to note that I hate the term rescue in regards to adopting an animal, because it sounds so much more heroic than it actually is. “Here’s $100, animal shelter—here I am, to the RESCUE!”)

Anyway, we went to an animal shelter and there were loads and loads of kittens and cats; N gravitated towards the 8 week old scrawny kittens, while I was firmly planted in “At Least 4 Months Old” land. We peered into this brown box, and this little tan thing peered back at us. I swooped into his cage and nabbed him, just as some chick said “Oh, that one is cute!” I knew right then that I had to have him. Just so that girl couldn’t.

When we got him home, we immediately realized that he was not like Rufus or Rosebud, in that he was not cuddly or sweet by any stretch of the imagination. He hid under the bed every time we came near him for the first few days. When we let him meet Rufus, he bitch-slapped him instantly. As if to say, “I may weigh 5 lbs, but I will KICK YOUR FUCKING ASS if you even move wrong.” And this attitude hasn’t changed—if our house was a prison, there is no doubt in my mind that Rufus would be the bitch, and Wilbur would be making him wear a wig and a dress. Once, caught them fighting on the bed. Wilbur bit Rufus in the nuts. Who does that? Even in a real fight, most guys don’t go immediately to the nuts.

But the thing about Wilbur is that his vulnerabilities are very prominent. For one, he’s a total wuss. Actually, that means he’s easy to discipline. I only have to clap my hands, and he immediately scurries away from the plant he’s trying to chew or bowl of cereal he’s trying to sniff.

For the first few months I called him Vidal Sassoon. Batting at hair to Wilbur was like the cat equivalent diving into a big pool of plastic balls. You don’t know why you’re doing it, but all you can think is, “My god, this is the most fun I’ve EVER had.” He’s outgrown it, mostly because I didn’t love the feeling of claws on scalp.

Of course, there’s the winky eye. The animal shelter said he was recovering from a bout of kitty cough, so his eyes might be a little runny. Just keep it clean, they said. A month later, his left eye still routinely leaked brown gunk. The vet confirmed that it was nothing. Just keep it clean, they said. So every morning, I take a wet piece of toilet paper and wipe his eye down. He hates it, but it’s part of his “routine,” so he tolerates it (meaning, he doesn’t try to bite me). It’s like a limp or a lisp. It gives him an edge.

Another habit he’s acquired doesn’t exactly bother me as much as it confuses the shit out of me. Every morning, I sit on the edge of our bed, in my bathrobe, and blow dry my hair. The second I flip the switch to “off,” Wilbur scurries out from under the bed and leaps next to me. He snuggles, cuddles, head bunts, and does all of the wonderful things cats are supposed to do. It lasts for 10 minutes. Then he starts gnawing on my wedding ring or the bristles of my hair brush. I don’t understand it. If you can explain this ridiculous behavior, email me. I’ll buy you lunch.

He also has what we call his “defensive place.” This isn’t a state of mind as much as it is a physical location: the back of the couch. He spreads out, his little belly flab splayed at his side, his paws stretched. He might even start purring. One would think, “Oh, what a sweet cat. I’ll pet him.” THAT WOULD BE A HUGE FUCKING MISTAKE. By “defensive place,” we mean “Be prepared to have your hand shredded.” This cat gets off on physical aggression. I mean he has little kitty orgasms, right there, on my couch, as he repeatedly swats at your hand, claws OUT.

Despite his flaws, I think we still love him. Kidding, I’m kidding. We love him.

80% of the time.

He’s got his moments where I see a glimmer of hope. Like this one: