I have a cat called Max, he became my cat when I moved in with my boyfriend Ollie.
I only refer to him as my cat when he’s a good pet; he’s my cat when he snuggles, when my friends say how beautiful he is, and when he lets me take pretty pictures of him for instagram.
Ollie gains full ownership when Max is an ass hole; your cat did a stinky shit, your cat vomited on the floor, your cat is ruining our couch with his relentless scratching.
Some days Max has a greasy forehead from the amount of times my pawpaw covered lips have kissed him, he is my main Netflix chill buddy, and we have a perfect symbiotic relationship of keeping each other warm. His purr is soothing, his fur is soft, and he is just lovely to be around.
Other days I feel like Max dreams up elaborate ways to test my patience. His favorite at the moment, banging his paws on our mirrored wardrobe at all hours of the night, so much noise from such a small cat. He also enjoys meowing incessantly even after being fed, ruining furniture, or taking a piss in the sink on occasion just to mix it up. The farm girl or Italian temper (not sure which one) comes out of me at times and Max receives a kick, a slap or the humiliating rubbing of face in fecal matter to teach him a lesson. Yeah, I hope I become more patient before I have kids.
I don’t know if Max understands, but usually after an outburst he punishes me by only sharing his cuddles and warmth with his dad. He will sit arrogantly curled up on Ollie’s lap shooting daggers at me from across the room.
In cat years Max is about 15. So I guess like all adolescent boys, I should expect him to be a little painful. At least I don’t have to deal with any voice breaking, pimple popping, wet dreaming shit. But I am keen to know Max in his 40’s, when he’s a distinguished gentleman. When he can sit, have a glass of vino with me and watch an art house film. Maybe he would have learnt to use the toilet with one of those cat training kits, and we can throw out his litter. Maybe instead of eating our herb garden he would tend to it. Maybe instead of ruining our furniture he could use his nimble paws to repair textiles and clothing…OK, this is getting weird.
For better or worse, I’m glad to have Max in my life.
