Years ago, back in college, I had a cat named Faust.
My roommates at the time nicknamed him Professor Doktor Faustus because he learned how to open interior doors by jumping up and grabbing the handle with his front paws, twisting it, and kicking the doorjamb with his hind legs until the door swung open. If the door swung inward, it usually took him a little longer.
Once a week or so, he’d wear himself out trying to open the front door, which was too heavy for him to move.
Anyway, he was a chow hound extraordinaire – if he had you pegged for a sucker, you couldn’t eat around him until he’d inspected the meal and received his tribute. Part of that was my fault – he and I had an agreement that if he’d keep his distance while I ate, I’d save him a nibble at the end. For some reason, though, Faust had no respect whatso-ever for one of my roommates at the time, a guy named Max.
One day, I decided to make tuna salad. I diced up some celery first, and while opening the cans, Faust of course raised hell about wanting what was in them, and I drained the water and let him have it, and he raised hell about wanting the REST of what was in the cans, and I ignored him and he swatted my leg, and I ignored him and he bit my ankle and I ignored him… and then I heard the crunching sounds behind me…
I turned around. He had leaped up on the other counter, and was eating the celery. Apparently, he meant to have SOME of what I was doing, whether I liked it or not…
Max came home from work later and asked if there was anything to eat. I told him there was tuna salad. He went and fixed a sandwich and sat down on the couch to watch the news with me. Faust promptly hopped up on the coffee table and yauped for his share. Max ignored him. Faust looked irritated, and leaned over the edge of the table, reaching out a paw to hook the sandwich and bring it closer for inspection. Max moved the sandwich where Faust couldn’t reach it, and bipped him gently on the nose with a finger by way of chastisement.
This was the fatal error; you could swat Faust or yell at him, but to patronize him was a grave mistake. Faust responded by suddenly leaning way forward, winding up with one paw, and firmly clouting the sandwich out of Max’s hand.
Max squawked.
I goggled.
The sandwich arced gracefully through the air.
Faust cocked his head, calculated the feast’s flight path, sprang off the coffee table, and positioned himself about where the sandwich would land on the floor, all in about three-quarters of a second.
I goggled.
Max recovered, leaped to his feet, hurdled the coffee table with a mighty bound, and fielded the sandwich out of the air about a foot above Faust’s waiting hungry paws.
They looked at each other like that for a minute – Max’s face filled with unbelieving outrage, Faust’s face creased with mild irritation.
Max roared.
Faust bolted.
I goggled.
Max launched himself after the cat, squishing the sandwich in a deathgrip, waving it around as if he meant to bludgeon the cat to death with it.
I sprained a latissimus, laughing.
He didn’t catch the cat, by the way.
A week later, Max was sitting in the big easy chair, eating rice and beans. Faust leaped up onto the arm of the chair, and stuck his face into the plate, by way of inspection.
Max, still a little irritated, yelled “NO!” in the cat’s face.
The cat jerked back a little, and looked at him as if to say, “You bastard.”
The next forkful of rice and beans, en route to Max’s mouth: Faust analyzed movement and trajectory, and like lightning, slapped the food matter off the fork without actually touching the fork.
Max looked at Faust with utter outrage.
Faust looked at Max with calm, stern forbearance (That’s what’cha get, buddy.)
Max didn’t catch the cat that time, either.
