Send help: The cat who won't stop meowing at deputy editor Max Stainkamph and his housemate.
The cat was, as cats often are, insistent on coming inside.
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She could see my fried chicken and chips, inside the warm house full of things for her to scratch herself on, and she wanted a part of it.
She wasn’t having any of my stern “no” or “I’m eating”, or my pleading “go away”. She wasn’t having a bar of it. No sir.
She wanted in. Now. And she wasn’t going to let anything like a simple back door stop her from entering her kingdom and strutting around like the queen she was. It was her birthright.
I don’t own a cat. My housemate doesn’t own a cat. Neither of us have ever owned cats, and, at this stage, don’t plan to.
This cat, which as I typed the opening sentence to this was crawling her way up my back flyscreen door, doesn’t care.
She wanted to come in. Now.
This isn’t a sudden occurrence. She appeared once, a few months ago, on my porch as I opened the front door, and was inside before I knew she was there.
At that point, I thought she was pregnant.
Now, months later, I know she’s not pregnant. She simply enjoys the finer things in life. Food, specifically.
Food I was denying her, like the callous criminal I am. And boy was she giving me an earful.
Evil genius: The cat that continues to outwit deputy editor Max Stainkamph and his housemate.
“Meowwwwwwwwwww,” she screeched at me.
(Sidenote, the word ‘meow’ fits inside the word ‘homeowner’. Now you’ll never forget that when you read the word homeowner. You’re welcome.)
On Monday, my housemate accidentally let the cat in, then kicked her out, then deliberately let her in after being swayed by her meowing, and then kicked her back out when she continued meowing while inside.
I accidentally let the cat in a third time within 90 minutes when I went to put the bin out, without realising she had figured out where the back door is.
Dear reader, not only is she is smart enough to know where the back door is, she was smart enough to sit there in silence, waiting for me to open the door, and sneak in while I was distracted.
This cat is not a stray. She is not a waif on the street seeking refuge from a dark and stormy night. She’s a well-fed, well-groomed manipulative mastermind who has us wrapped around her claws.
We’ve been outsmarted by a housecat.
Because the only way my housemate could get her back out of the house was to put some tuna on a plate and set it outside.
Of course, she happily went outside and consumed her snack before coming back to meow at us yet again. And again the next night. And, I suspect, the night after that, and the night after that, and every night until we either decide the cat now owns us and we may as well let her in, or until all three of us are dead.
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