Lately I've been waking up with heart palpitations in the morning. I don't really need to wonder about the reason though: it's not a physical health issue. It has more to do with the pitter-patter of big furry feet roaming around the bedroom in search of food. And the ear-piercing banshee screams at 4 am when one of my little furballs gets attacked by the Son of Satan.
The Son of Satan's real name is Finnigan. I adopted him from a shelter just over a year ago, when my daughter was going through a stressful period. As a companion, he was awesome, cuddly and loveable.
Everyone who sees him fawns over him, saying "Awww, but he's so cute."
Ummm, no. This sweet ball of fluff may be all fuzzy cuteness in this picture but in real life, he's Freddy Krueger on steroids.
Let it be known that Finn is a two-year-old male cat with dominance issues. He likes to let every other creature around him know that this house belongs to him and he's the kingpin. And just to make sure that all cats never forget that, he reinforces the message on a daily basis by beating the crap out of them.
His favourite trick is to lie in wait for other cats, biding his time until they no longer seem to be paying attention to him. Then he'll launch himself off a table or dresser and land full force on top of his unsuspecting victim, knocking the wind right out of their poor, squashed lungs.
Screeches, hisses and spitting usually ensue, with the victim usually running off to find a hiding spot where Evil Knievel can't easily attack it. Needless to say, that doesn't work too well when your attacker can jump as high as you can.
After a year of ongoing battles, I'm getting frustrated. I've taken him to the vet many times but they simply rattle off the same basic advice that they give to all new cat owners: Make sure there are enough litterboxes, spread them out throughout the house, make sure each cat has its own food bowl and toys. I even tried the Feliway diffusers (think Glade plug-in aromatherapy for cats). What a waste of money.
At this point, Satan's spawn is in desperate need of some Xanax. Unfortunately, the vet isn't willing to prescribe something for him. Instead, they referred me to an exorcist (aka Cat Behaviour Consultant). Apparently, this cat consultant can perform miracles for only $400 an hour. Hmmm, thanks but I need my dollars to pay my own psychologist.
So I guess I'll have to continue to referee the wrestling matches until I find a solution or the devil develops arthritis and can't jump anymore. In the meantime, I keep the can of compressed air handy and clean up the aftermath of nasty encounters as they occur. Who knows, maybe I'll be able to knit myself a nicer cat with all the clumps of fur I'm picking up off the floor.
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