The Pussy Whisperer
From "Animal Planet" web site, 2012
While loafing in front of the TV instead of the computer the other night I came across a show called "My Cat from Hell." It featured young couples with a problem cat, an angry kitty that bit or clawed them with or without provocation. These bad cats are a picture of purring sweetness one moment and gnawing on their owners like they were a hunk of jungle gristle the next. In the show, a giant, goateed, bespectacled man comes into their house to make peace between the young couples and their cats. He plays with the cat with a toy mouse, scratches it behind the ear, and tells the young couples the major remodeling changes they need to make in their homes so their cats will be happy.
These simpering, anxiety-ridden, feline ass-kissers offended me. I'm not pretending to be some major macho character. The most dangerous thing I do on most days is drive to the supermarket on a California freeway. If I really feel like pushing the edge of the fear envelope, I'll grab a cart without wiping it down with a disinfectant towel first. But I know how to deal with cats.
I first learned the secret of human-cat relations when I brought home a pound kitten for my then-small son. I worked at a nightclub that stayed open until four AM at the time. The first day in, the cat decided, after I had gone to bed at five in the morning, to begin tapping me softly on the cheek at six. Maybe it was hungry, maybe it wanted to play, maybe it was fascinated by my emerging stubble. In any case, I reacted instinctively. I palmed that sweet pile of fluff and shot-putted it overhead. At the moment of release, I remembered that I was then living on the 18th floor of a Waikiki high rise, and had left the full-length window open so the trade winds could soothe me to sleep. A fraction of a second later I heard the thump of its little furry body against the wall, knew I had missed that window, and gratefully went back to slumberland.
I want to assure you that the cat and I suffered no permanent damage to our relationship as I result of my nearly hurling the beast to its death. He remained a sweet and affectionate kitten, plus he never, ever sought my attention again before I was seated upright and eating breakfast.
I was therefore well-equipped to deal with the first Cat from Hell I encountered. This beast drew blood from me with its claw the moment I reached out to scratch its head. The young couple I was staying with for the weekend giggled their apologies, but it developed that both of them and their three dogs as well were terrified of the creature. A band-aid was offered me, but there was no hint of a behavior modification program being planned for the porch puma. As soon as my hosts left the house, I invented my own. If you have a similar problem, I advise you to use this approach, instead of disposing of your masculinity like so much kitty litter by calling the Pussy Whisperer.
Select a broom. Standard or straw. Not whisk or push. Whisk brooms are too short, and push-brooms lack the proper aerodynamics for the task at hand. They are for snakes. Take a couple full practice swings with your weapon. Do it in full view of the couch cougar. He suspects nothing. In his mind, he is still the Lion King. Hopefully, he is sitting in some spot forbidden to him when you approach, like the dining room table, so he gets a double dose of obedience training, but don't wait. Your friends will be back soon. There's no need for them to see this.
Make that first whack count. It is the only one you'll be certain to get in, but don't stop there. Just smacking the couch cougar once may be interpreted by the beast as an accident, and he may seek revenge. Follow after him, swinging. He is quick and agile, but in an enclosed space he may be trapped. Give him a good drubbing, backhand, forehand, overhand—whatever's possible. If you damage some small furnishings, blame it on the cat when your friends notice. You want them angry with their trailer tiger, so they won't examine it too closely for injuries when they get back.
Eventually the closet ocelot will escape. Don't worry about him attacking you as he shoots between your legs. He won't, and he won't ever again. He may still go after your friends and their dogs, but he knows now that there's a new Big Kitty on the premises and your future coexistence with the creature will be one of utter tranquility.
That's how you broom a cat. If you can't do this, then you know what you are. The name for you is contained in the title of the post.
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