I’m going to write a book and call it Doing Things the Hard Way. Chapter 1 will be about childhood, growing up, school, adulthood, career, ambition, love, growing old, dying, etc. Chapters 2-18 will be about cat care.

I think about my book as I sit outside with the cat on her leash. Last night she wriggled free of her harness and went scampering off into the bushes like an evil little wood-sprite. When I finally caught her, I breathed one sigh of relief and then immediately tried to figure out how I could punish her. But it is impossible to punish a cat. To truly punish one, that is, so that she associates the punishment with the crime. I don’t think it can be done. With a dog, you can just wave the leash in her face and scream at her, and she will get the picture in at least a dim sense. Probably there will be cringing on her part, which is always gratifying if you’re deeply pissed off. The dog may then immediately ignore whatever admonitions you’ve given her and return to disobeying you, with gusto, but at least you can be assured that you can always wring some more contrition out of her when you catch her again. With a cat, there is no contrition. There is no “meow culpa” (OMG sorry—I couldn’t resist). There is only hissing, with its implicit message of “put me down, bitch, so I can return to whatever atrocity I was committing.”  

What all of this insolence means is that you. the owner, are forced to adapt to the cat, rather than the other way around. You must strategize ways to keep the cat out of trouble, knowing that if there is trouble to be had, the cat will by-god have it. For instance, I now know that when the cat starts backing up while she’s on her leash, it’s because she understands that this way lies freedom. I must tug at her and scream the moment I sense her even thinking about doing this, otherwise she will scoot backwards out of her harness like a greased piglet.

And yes, the mere fact that I am outside with the cat on a leash in the first place is another testament to my endless adaptability to my cat’s needs. The situation is, she wants to be outside. However, she is not only missing an eye, she is also exceedingly stupid. I have no doubt that if I let her go her own way, without human supervision, she would immediately find her way to the busiest intersection on High Street, where she would wander amidst traffic, creating fender benders hither and yon. And so, in order to make her desire to be outside compatible with my interests in keeping her away from High Street, I must walk her on a leash. Constantly. Seven times a day, at least—or she makes life inside the apartment unbearable.

Walking the cat brings with it certain other conditions. Because it is mosquito season, and I apparently do not believe in bug spray (actually, that’s a lie—I just keep forgetting to buy some), I must deck myself out in long pants, a jean jacket, a hat, socks and shoes, every time I take her out in the evenings. And because standing around in the patch of grass behind the apartment can get dull fast, I often bring a book with me, to squint at in the porch light. These elements, combined with my tendency to scream and go off crashing around in the bushes, have likely cemented my status here as the new neighborhood crazy cat lady.

But really, aren’t all of us cat owners crazy, each in our own way?