She cries when she shits — right after, rather — to warn me that she’ll be pawing at the litterbox for the next ten minutes in a vain attempt to make it disappear. The apartment complex must be rife with predators: a condor here, a komodo dragon slinking along just beneath the island cabinetry.
So in a weak half-sleep stupor I walk out to find her sprawled on the carpet, longer than she can possibly be lest she’s actual chewed gum. And I wrestle her until she resigns to being picked up. She’s a 16-pound sandbag with a gurgling throat, gazing up at me in the darkness, probably wondering if I’m going to take her to a different place — one where her sister can’t find and provoke her.
She wriggles out and cannonballs onto the bed, a perpetual purring device, and walks around to find just the right spot. Her little paws pat and search for something — maybe a familiar scent, maybe a spot of heat I’m not cognizant of. Then she flops fiercely on her side and begins to lick. At two in the morning, the sound of a cat’s sandpaper tongue against sheets is like thunder in the ear. I imagine, for a moment, that the neighbors can hear it in the distance, wondering what’s wrong with the stack of compressors on the roof.
Soon, the chubby gal settles into a pretzel position. But the night’s only begun. Soon, claws are caught in carpet as a chase breaks out between the stringy little spaghetto, the youngling of the bunch, and the Maine Coon mutt. The sound is furious, a visceral yanking of carpet fibers that reminds me of purpose of a pet deposit. I pray the floors are insulated.
The silence is the most worrisome. Someone has probably taken a position on the table, or the island countertop, and gazes down at their prey with a flicking tail, waiting for a sign of weakness — mounting their offense with the lizard brain that guides them. Soon it will be five. The alarm will sound. And they will all be sprawled on the carpet, quietly waiting for their breakfast.