More to love with Murder Mittens

My entire life has been pro-DOG. Dogs are better than cats, dogs are smarter than cats, dogs are sweeter than cats, cat-people are crazy, yada yada yada. Right? That's thirty-plus years of dog-loving, dog owning, dog righteousness.

My grandfather bred wire-hair fox terriers.

My aunt bred Yorkshire terriers

I bred German shepherds.

We are DOG. PEOPLE.

So, what happens? I get a divorce, and something about that divorce made me want to lash out. I wanted to stay up late; I wanted to take trips I wasn't allowed to take; I wanted to binge-watch chick shows; I wanted to be an adrenaline junky; I wanted to do all of the things to break myself free.

My ex was allergic to real Christmas trees. I would have gotten a real Christmas tree the first Christmas as a single mom, but it turns out that one of my sons also is allergic to them...and I truly found a perfect fake flocked tree. All being said, that was kind of a wash.

My ex was also allergic to cats, and so is one of my sons, but that exact kid is the one who asked me. "Mom, can we get a cat?"

Well, that's kind of a fun idea. "But you're allergic," I reminded him (not that he didn't know).

"I know," he said. "I won't let it sleep in my room and I'll wash my hands. Can I name it, too? Please?"

We thought about it for a while.

I have a dog; can I have a cat, too?

Can I teach an old dog to love a new cat?

I told my accomplice* that he'd have to teach me the ways of the cat, because I know absolutely nothing about owning a cat.

So, one Sunday morning I woke up and decided. I needed a cat. To hell with allergies and ex-husbands and should and should-nots. We went to Petsmart to look.

I learned about Torti colors while I was there. Didn't know that was a thing. I believe dog people call in Brindle.

Now, we saw a couple of cats while we were there. They were all scared and not playful like puppies. How do you pick a good cat? I had no clue. I still have no clue. They wouldn't play with the toy in the play room. They didn't really want to cuddle or be held. They didn't really do anything.

Why was I doing this again? Oh, yeah. My kid asked for one.

The accomplice* and the Petsmart lady were very helpful.

"You'll need a bowl for food and water," (duh), "and a toy or two and cat food", (again, duh.).

"Don't forget kitty litter and a litter box," one of them said.

"Hold up," I interrupted. "No litter box. Outside kitty."

Apparently, that's not how this works. I refused to spend much money on a litter box and scratching post and expensive toys for her to ignore. I did not want that cat inside my house enough to destroy it or poop in it.

"You have to have a litter box for a few weeks," I was told, so the kitty gets used to where home is or something. "Ugh. Fine. It goes in the garage."

So, I took her home (the cat, not the Petsmart lady) and put out her food and water (inside) and made her litter box, and she hid behind the couch for like six hours. Why in the round world did I get a cat??? How is this fun??

But, eventually, a day or so later, she livened up and loosened up, and now I'm learning the way of the cat. Her name is Kai, but we call her Titty (not meant to be vulgar, but derived from a cute story about a little girl who couldn't say her K's) or Murder Mittens more often than Kai.

Yes, she is an indoor-outdoor cat. She loves to climb trees and run with the local deer.

She raps her paws against the glass storm door or any window when she wants in. A very polite kitty always knocks.

She enjoys playing with toys, but not cat toys. She likes Nerf bullets, hair ties, and bouncy balls.

She jumps onto the big blue bean bag chair, drops her ball or bullet off the side of it, watches it bounce and roll, and then she pounces on it all over again.

She's getting good at sling-shotting her own hair tie (it's light blue) across the tile floors so she can chase it down again.

She tries to catch the dog's tail, and I'm fairly certain she would ride the dog if the dog would tolerate it.

She's an excellent snuggle buddy. Her warmth and weight and purring are narcotic.

She likes to play rough, but only uses her claws (her murder mittens) and teeth very lightly. Good kitty.

Along this very short one-month path, I've learned a few things about cats:

1. Cats will totally knock over your Christmas tree. That is not a myth or invention by bloggers and twitterers. Eventually, my tree had a gangsta' lean, propped ever so lightly against the wall behind it because cats are dicks, I guess. Or maybe they like the sparkly lights and the camouflage of the tree? I really don't know. I lost a couple of glass ornaments over the month of December. Overall, not a big deal.

2. Cats don't answer to their name. Well, at least not when it counts. I thought I dishwashed the kitty during week 1. During a brisk clean-up attempt (two sons, me, a dog, and now a cat), I dropped a pod in the dishwasher, cranked the old girl on, and walked into my sons' rooms to gather laundry. Well, I went back to the kitchen a few minutes later and heard the normal whooshing and whirring of the old, white dishwasher, but accompanied with another noise. A squeak, maybe? Oh, no. A MEOW. Did the dishwasher just meow? I listened closer. It did it again.

"Kitty?" I called into the rest of the house. "Kitty, kitty, where are you?" Of course she didn't come to her name because she barely had one and cats aren't known for their participation in games as such.

"Oh, shit," I said, alone and aloud to the dishwasher. It had only been a few minutes since I started the machine, but I was certain that if I dishwashed the kitty that she was going to FLING out of that machine, armed and dangerous and wet and mad, mad, mad.

I clicked the handle of the machine, the water stopped and fell to the bottom, I ducked below the anticipated trajectory range of the mad, wet danger kitty, and slowly opened the door, being sure to keep safety in mind.

But, once I got the door mostly open and nothing flew out, I peeped inside.

"Kitty?" I asked the dripping baskets.

No kitty.

"Oh, thank God," I breathed aloud, and no sooner did I do that, I heard it: jingle, jingle, the tiny bell on her collar alerted me to her position. There she was, looking at me like I was the crazy one, under the dang Christmas tree.

3. Everyone loves a good Nightmare Before Kitty story. The next day, I was at the local government office to renew my car's tags. We all know those places, right? Those offices are where customer service goes to die. No one has any personality, ever.

But, alas, we're at the counter, and I'm paying for my tags, and the lady behind the computer is tick-tick-ticking away on her keyboard while I'm relaying the story to my accomplice* about how I thought I dishwashed the kitty. Now, mind you, in order to tell a good story, you have to be willing to make some sound effects. One cannot simply say "meow" without mimicking the noise.

Anyway, the cashier was doing a pretty good job minding her own business, and I must have been doing a good job relaying the story, because at the end of it all when I said, "Long story short: the dishwasher squeaks now" she couldn't maintain composure and laughed with us.

Now, it's only been a month, but so far, so good. There's a lot to love about life with a dog...and, surprisingly, even more with a cat named Murder Mittens.