Academia: the Last Refuge of the Coward

The CowardlyAcademe hasn’t spent Christmas with family in . . . a while. My current university has a surprisingly long winter break, and I find it easier (and cheaper) to just wait until January to go see them. I’m pretty cool with this, though I wish my dad wouldn’t start crying when he calls Christmas Day.

So since I’m always around, I usually end up doing a lot of housesitting for people who are used to relying on me. This year, I’m taking care of ten animals and assorted houseplants. Two of these ten are antisocial sonofabitch cats.

These cats hate everyone except their now-absent owners. There’s a small white one who hides and, if discovered, will hiss softly and look terrified. Then there’s the other – a huge goddamn monster of a cat covered with shaggy black fur. I swear it’s like a bobcat. His tendency is to lurk under tables; if I enter a room where he is sitting, he will first hiss and then start making that MRRRRRRRRWWWWWWWWWLLLLL catgrowl noise. The last time I took care of these cats, he decided after four or five days that he could come over and sit next to me if I were on the sofa. Then he would lie there and purr, unless I tried to pet him. Or shift my position. Or make eye contact. Any of these actions resulted in me being immediately and savagely attacked, and then he’d run away.

So I was prepared for more of the same this time around, and it had been. Yesterday, I arrive, open the front door, and discover just inside the door, a pile of cat vomit. (I think. It might have been diarrhea, but I would lean towards vomit.) Ah. The cats are upset. Great. I step over the vomit and head into the kitchen for cleaning supplies and cat food.

As soon as I enter the kitchen, I know why the cats are upset. There is a bathroom right off the kitchen (“I’ll take ‘eccentric design choices’ for $200, Alex”) and it is completely trashed. I’d been told this by the owners, but forgotten – “work” is being done on their bathroom while they’re gone, and I’ve so far managed to miss the workmen. Everything is torn up and looking totally nonfunctional. So of course the cats are upset; they hate strangers and they’ve had not just a bunch of people walking in and out, but a bunch of people invading their space and making an unbelievable amount of noise.

This all takes me about three seconds to process, and I turn around to see that Huge Shaggy Black Cat has followed me into the kitchen. I have time to think, “That’s funny, he’s never done that befo-“ before he launches himself across the kitchen floor at me, screaming with rage and windmilling wildly with all four sets of claws. This is not an upset cat. This is a cat who has LOST HIS GODDAMNED MIND.

My jeans took the brunt of the attack, and I believe that my girly shrieking and attempt to retreat to the top of the kitchen table so confused my attacker that he retreated. He came after me once more while I was putting food in the bowls (I discovered that cats do not respond positively to, “What the fuck is your fucking problem, dude?”), and then we had a battle of wills over whether I was going to be allowed to clean up the probably-vomit. Yes, he was guarding the pile of probably-vomit. I won, but only because I squirted him with the spray bottle of Lysol I was carrying (I swear it was just a little bit).

I CAN’T WAIT TO GO BACK TODAY. I want to see if he’s got like three remodelers trapped on top of the kitchen counters.