Buffy is a bed cat, and no two ways about it. He ain’t gracious about it, either.
We inherited Buffy when he wandered in with the herd one day. My wife called “kitty, kitty,” to the herd, since it was supper time, and they all came romping in, with Buffy at the tail end of the swarm.
My wife stuck her foot out to block his path. “And who might YOU be?” she asked.
Buffy looked up placidly, as if to ask why he wasn’t being allowed in. “I’m a kitty,” he replied. “You called for kitties. Here I am. What’s the problem?” He then tried to climb over her foot to get into the house.
It was a while before Buffy was actually allowed in, though. Not for lack of trying on his part. I hold a firm opinion that once you’ve fed a cat… and NAMED the cat… you now have a cat. My wife understood my opinion, and almost listened to me on the subject. She finally wound up feeding the cat, since he seemed content to starve to death, as long as it was on our porch.
…but the day he graduated from “that buff-colored cat,” to “Buffy”… well, dammit, I knew we had another damn cat. And it was all my wife’s frickin’ fault.
Sigh.
He’s the only tom in the house. He’s the most laid-back cat in the world. He’s the only cat I’ve ever seen who’d let a vet check his teeth and his rectal temperature as if it were no big deal.
The only thing Buffy will get snarky about… is the bed.
When we got Buffy, you see, I worked the graveyard shift. My wife slept in the bed at night, and I slept in it during the day. Buffy liked this fine. Buffy is my WIFE’s cat, you see. Likes my daughter, tolerates me, but LOVES my wife. Loves her to the point where when my wife goes to bed, Buffy will climb up on her pillow, curl around her head, and stick his nose in her ear and doze off, purring.
It took her a while to get used to the cold wet nose in her ear. Or the purring, for that matter, but mostly the cold wet nose in her ear. She tried shoving him off the pillow, but realized that this simply meant that Buffy would wait until she was almost asleep…
…and then sneak up on her…
…climb carefully onto her pillow…
…and stick his cold wet nose in her ear RIGHT when she was on the verge of falling asleep.
Eventually, she reached the point of simply letting him do it ONCE, and then dozing off WITH the cold wet nose in her ear, rather than put up with it six or eight times a night.
Now, the interesting thing about this was what happened the two nights a week that I was HOME, you see. When I WASN’T home, the cat would happily curl around his mistress’s head and fall asleep…
…but when the Man Of The House was home, he would spread out as wide as possible on MY side of the bed… and give me a Look when I approached and proposed that he move.
Now, our bed is not small. We went out and got one of those king-sized monster beds, big enough for the whole family. Literally. On nights where all hell was breaking loose, we have easily managed the wife, the kid, myself, and all the damn cats, all in the bed, and without a whole lot of crowding. BIG bed.
…but when the Man Of The House was home, he would contest me for my side of the bed. Almost like he didn’t WANNA share my wife with me. Same routine every night.
- Cat gives me a Look as I approach.
- I say “Move, Buffy.”
- Cat gives me a “Yeah, right,” look.
- I nudge the cat.
- Cat gives me a “No comprende Ingles” look.
- I pick cat up.
- Cat complains loudly, as if someone is ripping his tail out by the roots. Cat looks pathetic. Wife looks at cat. Cat looks at her. Cat looks at me.
- I put cat on foot of bed, out of my way.
- Cat gives me a low-key “you asshole,” look.
- I get into the bed. Cat settles down.
Eventually, when the hour is late, all books are read, and lights are turned off, we move to the final stage, #11:
11. Cat creeps up on pillow, curls around wife’s head, and sticks his nose in her ear and begins to purr. Loudly.
…and this was the routine for ages. The cat knew damn good and well he was never going to win the fight with the Big Person, that he was GOING to be moved elsewhere on the bed. It was, like, his form of protest. “Yes, I know you’re going to move me, but you’re going to HAVE to move me, y’big bastard. I refuse to submit willingly.”
And he’d always glance at my wife, to see if perhaps THIS time she would intercede for his poor, pathetic, arrogantly-moved-against-his-will self. She never did, but he never gave up hoping.
And this only happened when SHE was in the bed. If I was in the bed alone, he might want to sleep on it, or not, and it didn’t seem to matter to him exactly where he slept. If SHE wasn’t on the bed, he wouldn’t resist or complain in the least when picked up and moved elsewhere on the bed.
And the pattern continues to this day.
Although there was one major change a while back. I quit my old job. Went back to school to get my certifications, and started living during the day, like a regular human. This meant that I would be sleeping with my wife in my bed, EVERY night.
Buffy did not much care for this. He seemed to regard it as a personal attack on him. He even went so far as to snap at me a time or two when I picked him up and moved him. Even now, if he’s REALLY not in the mood to be moved, he’ll hiss at me, or swat me with his paw. He REALLY does not like the idea of having to argue with me about who’s the man of the bed, every single night, and every single night, he makes his displeasure known.
And then he loses the argument, and things settle down.
Until the following night.
As time went on, I noticed that Buffy was getting a little grouchier, it seemed, about his bed prerogatives. On weekends, or when Stephen King puts out a new book, we might well wind up staying awake to read quite late. Buffy did NOT like this, either, and found ways to make his displeasure known. The funniest was probably around the time “Dreamcatcher” came out, and my wife was determined to finish the book that night… and the cat climbed up on her stomach, yauped loudly, and pushed the book with his head until she was finally unable to keep it upright.
Then the cat made long and meaningful eye contact with her.
Then the cat very purposefully strode to his accustomed spot on her pillow. And curled around her head. And stuck his nose in her ear. And purred.
VERY loudly.
Plainly, it was time to end this “reading” foolishness, and go to bed. The Cat has declaimed it so.
The matter, though, came to a head one night during a tickle fight.
Yes, a tickle fight. One night, the kid called up the hall to see if her mother was all right, you see, and her dear mother called back (a little panicked) that yes, everything was fine, didn’t mean to yell like that, she and daddy were having a tickle fight, everything was fine…
…so we were having a tickle fight. Nothing out of the ordinary about that. Good clean fun. Well, actually, no it’s not. Y’see, “tickle fight” in my house is a euphemism for “foot massage.”
No, seriously. Foot massage. My wife’s feet are very sensitive to a good massage, and in our years of marriage, I have learned the value of such a thing. And a full scale foot massage, to my wife, means STARTING with having the feet rubbed, the toes pulled, the muscle groups massaged… and ENDING with having the tough pads on her heels chewed on.
Yeah, I know. I couldn’t hold still for that, but she LOVES it, and I love HER, so, well, what? And no, it DOESN’T really tickle her. It DOES, however, put her in a passionate frame of mind, so, well, hey, far be it from me to criticize. Hell, I knew a guy who got turned on by watermelons, once, but this is not the time to discuss such a thing. My wife really likes a good foot massage, and she likes having her heels gnawed on, and you can just deal with that.
I often begin by gently running my nails around her ankles and the tops of her feet, before seizing a foot and rubbing my thumb up and down the sole, across the major muscle groups, right? See, my wife’s a teacher, which means she’s on her feet much of the day, and you do THAT and she just melts.
And that’s just the beginning. I went on to nibble on the tips of her toes, kneading the soles of her feet, scratching around her ankles and up the calves, and finally nibbling around the tough calloused bottoms of her heels. It absolutely TRANSPORTS her, really. And more importantly… it makes her happy.
My only clue that something was wrong was when my wife said, “Mmmr… mm… Darling, I, mmr – AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHKKKKK!!!”
And the soles of both her feet abruptly clamped down on either side of my head.
My first thought was that I had bitten her too hard. I tried to say, “Baby, are you all right? Did I hurt you?” but my attempt to do so was hampered somewhat by the sole of her foot, clamped over my mouth. Her other foot was clamped on the back of my head. I tried to pry her feet loose, but she was locked onto me like a pair of visegrip pliers. Furthermore, she was thrashing in such a way that made me wonder if she wasn’t trying to pull my head off, using only her feet. Off in the distance, I could hear her cursing and growling like she was possessed or something. What the hell?
“AAAAARRR!” she cried, and, twisting her torso, began repeatedly thwacking my head against the edge of the bed.
“O-kay, enough of THIS,” I thought, and brought my left arm up between her knees, and levered her legs apart enough to pop my head forward. Ah, good. Nearly pulled my ears off doing it, but that’s better.
Unfortunately, I still couldn’t quite see what the problem was. Furthermore, she then clamped her feet around my TORSO and flung me off the bed. I bounced off the wall and landed on my head. What the hell? Demonic possession, had to be. She’d just got too relaxed while I was rubbing her feet and sucking on her toes and the demon Pazuzu or whoever had gotten in there and was screwing up the works. All right, how did one go about shaking a demon out of one’s wife’s head? Well, getting up off the floor might be a start. I fell over, off my head, and sat up.
And about then, my dear wife, cursing like a Turkish sailor, ripped part of her head off, and threw it at me.
I tried to duck, but I was still a little stunned… not only by the impact, but by the sight of my wife ripping the top of her head off. I mean, it was dark and all, but even so, this was NOT something she does on a regular basis, certainly. Hey, was that BLOOD running down her forehead? Holy SHIT! Meanwhile, her scalp bounced off my chest. It hit the floor, HISSED at me, and scampered out the bedroom door, rrowling…
The real story: we’d been up kind of late reading, and then turned off the lights in preparation for the foot massage, so naturally Buffy had assumed it was time to go to bed. He’d crept up on the pillow around his mistress’ head and dozed off. Nothing unusual about that. Buffy’d been there during the occasional foot massage before. Usually, he took a dislike to the rollin’ and wrasslin’, and simply leaped off the bed to seek peace and quiet elsewhere. But… this evening… he’d dozed off, apparently, before the massage had really got rolling, and in all the excitement, we really hadn’t noticed he was there.
At least SHE hadn’t. She was kind of preoccupied. And I was nowhere near the cat, so to speak. I rubbed and massaged and nibbled on one foot, then the other. Back and forth…
…but as the evening wore on, Buffy woke up, a little. There was considerable motion and noise going on, and he didn’t much like it. Even worse, His Mistress was rolling her head back and forth and making noise instead of lying quietly still and going to sleep. Buffy tried to get back to sleep, but the wiggling and bumping and suchlike continued.
Finally, in a fit of pique, Buffy growled, leaned forward, grabbed the Mistress’s head with his front claws, and bit down on her forehead.
Yes, that WAS blood running down her forehead. It had taken her a moment to pry the cat loose and get RID of him; when she’d screamed, he had FREAKED and had clamped down with all four paws and his teeth. Meanwhile, transported for an entirely different reason, she’d clamped down on ME with her legs, barely aware I was there. Thrashing madly, trying to get the damn cat off her head, she’d never realized she was whacking my head all over the end of the bed. When I’d tried to pry her legs apart, she promptly kicked me off the bed altogether.
Good strong legs on my wife, yes.
We got up and went to the bathroom and hit the lights. She wasn’t TOO badly injured, but scalp wounds do tend to bleed. I began disinfecting them, at which point, my wife realized there was a cat in the house who needed his ass kicked, and went charging out into the hall. I pursued, peroxide and cotton balls in hand, hoping perhaps I could keep her from killing Buffy… and then stopped.
It seemed to me that I’d played this game once before, only last time, it had been with a dog. Wasn’t this the reason I was not now a dog person?
In the living room, I heard Buffy rrrrowl! as my wife caught him. She carried him back into the hallway, holding him by the scruff of the neck. She swatted his butt a time or two, and she growled at him about “BAD kitty! No bite!”, and he looked remarkably impenitent. Then again, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cat look penitent about anything. He had, however, quit growling in his throat, and he HAD laid his ears back and drawn in his claws. She put him down, and he looked back at us, ears still laid back, and slunk away, UNDER the bed.
Impenitent, perhaps, but not anxious to debate the point.
We mopped the blood off my wife’s head and disinfected her scratches. They weren’t bad; the bite was the worst, and even then, most of it was hidden by her hair. By the time we were done, we were laughing.
Almost.
Well, I would have laughed, if I’d dared.
The following week, during a snuggle session, I accidentally leaned on his tail, and he bit her again. Shoulder, this time. And then, when she shrieked, he lammed out instead of clamping down.
She claims he’s learning not to bite so badly, and not to hang on afterwards, and now it’s just a matter of teaching him not to bite at all.
I think WE’RE learning to not get frisky on the bed without making sure to wake up the damn cat first…
