Big Scary Monster

This little guy, Mike, may look sweet and harmless, but apparently he is really a big, scary monster. Or at least that's what he becomes when he feels his territory is being invaded. As an inside cat, his territory is anything within the walls of this house, a house I thought was ours but evidently belongs to the cat.

Over the weekend, Husband and I went to the lake house for an evening. I packed up supplies for dinner, fed the cats, and told my dear friend and neighbor that, yes, she could use my ovens while I was away. She has a house key, so we drove off and let her have the kitchen.

Here's what happened when this dear friend and neighbor, lover of animals, kind soul, came into my kitchen to bake. Mike went insane. Mike took her as an intruder in his divinely appointed space and set out to remove her. As he does when he sees a wondering cat through the window, he started screaming in that terrible cat scream that says, "If you don't heed this warning, I'll lunge at you and rip you to kingdom come." His tail puffed out, his ears went back, and he charged, screaming.

My friend yelled at him and called him by name, but he was not appeased. So, she grabbed a baking pan and threw it on the floor. The clanging sound sent Mike scampering into another room, but he was only put off for a few minutes. He came back twice more, both times as furious and protective of his space as before, and both times causing my friend to have to bang baking pans on the tile to fend him off. And to think she was afraid of upsetting his imbalanced blood-sugar level. She should have smacked his big, fat head.

So, here's what I think. I think Mike owns this house, or at least in his mind he owns it, and he allows us to live here. While he hisses at Husband, he doesn't scream or charge, but he has staked his claim. All along I thought we had a pet, but we are the pets, it turns out. When I thought I was taking care of Mike because he's my fluffy bundle of fur, it seems he owns me so that he can have food and water and litter and insulin and a belly rub now and then.

That soft blanket No. 1 crocheted for me? No, it's Mike's. He sleeps on it and only lets me wrap up in it when he's in another room. Those dining room chairs I thought were for the family and guests? They're really for Mike to hide under when trouble comes. That chair under the skylight where I like to read? It's really his daybed, and my presence in it is only tolerated.