I am thankful for one of our cats

The other one....not so much

Look! More seasonal content! In honor of Thanksgiving, I thought I’d share something I am thankful for: My cat.

One of them, that is.

Her name is Pepper. We (meaning I) rather impulsively adopted her from a shelter in 2018. Alastair was away on tour and I was in a sort of fugue state of misery and confusion. I’d recently absorbed the fact that every single editor my agent sent my (never-to-be-published) novel Grateful to had said no. So when the kids were browsing local shelter websites and were like “Mom, can we get this little black kitten?” I was like sure, fine, whatever, my life is over, kill me now.

But as it turns out, a kitten makes an excellent sorry-your-book-isn’t-getting-published consolation prize.

Today, though she is no longer a kitten, Pepper is still very small, the size of your average adolescent cat. She is playful, curious, and extremely skittish. We frequently imitate, in a timid, high-pitched voice, what we imagine she would say if she could talk, e.g.: Oh my goodness! When that person made that noise I was so terribly frightened! When she is in a good mood, Pepper will stand on your lap and let you pet her. When she’s in a really good mood, she’ll even sit. But god forbid you move a fraction of an inch, or she is out of there. Oh my goodness!

Pepper’s interests include popcorn, the basement, not being held, and carrying a little stuffed bird around in her mouth, then flinging it up into the air and chasing it like a maniac, which is a sheer delight to observe.

Her number one passion in life, however is our other cat, Opie—a nine-year-old, slightly overweight orange tabby.

Pepper follows Opie everywhere, and knows where he is at all times. She meows at us if he’s outside and wants to come in, or vice versa. She loves cuddling with him, wrestling with him, chasing him and being chased by him. Her idea of nirvana—which she achieves on a regular basis—is lying on the couch with Opie, licking his head and face and paws and and….well, there’s no delicate way to put this…his asshole.

Opie, on the other hand, is an asshole.

Let me explain. Because I can hear the dander of all you cat lovers and generally nice people who don’t call their pets assholes rising. I love Opie. Truly, I do. I love him like one loves their blowhard libertarian uncle after he’s had six Michelobs and is slouched on the couch, getting a little misty eyed, talking about what a cute little kid you were, and how he used to give you piggy back rides and buy you ice cream.

Opie has a lot of excellent qualities. For starters, he is incredibly chill around people. He’ll let anyone pick him up and pet him, and patiently allows himself to be man-handled by children.

Opie is also a champion napper, and will curl up next to you on the couch or in bed, and it’s quite nice. He is well liked in the neighborhood, and is not shy about lolling about in the sun on other people’s porches, or fucking with greeting their dogs. He is also very patient with the fact that Pepper considers him her BFF, when the feeling is clearly not mutual. (Except when she is licking his ass.)

Also, he does some funny stuff.

But Opie also has a lot of extremely problematic behaviors. And this is why, I’m sorry, it would be inaccurate to say I was actually, proactively thankful for him, as I am for Pepper, my sweet little booby prize.

For starters, there’s the spite pooping. On several truly horrifying occasions we’ve come home after being out of town to find cat shit in the bathroom sink. (Undetected or possibly ignored by the cat sitter.) How do we know Opie did it and not Pepper? Oh we just know. We fucking know.

Then there’s the food problem. When he’s not sleeping, Opie is constantly, constantly on the hunt for food. We can’t leave anything out unattended, because he’ll jump up onto the counter or table and start marauding. He has defiled countless cheese and charcuterie boards. He has stolen pieces of chicken FROM OUR PLATES while we were eating. Once, he ate an entire plate of cooked broccoli while our backs were turned. He is a fucking menace.

We frequently put him outside or sequester him in our bedroom while we’re cooking or eating dinner, just so we can have some goddamned peace and not have to worry about him clambering around on the counter and stove, getting into pots and pans, or knocking them to the floor for a more comfortable dining experience. (Although sequestering him is a risky strategy, because it can—and at least once did—lead to spite pooping.)

A secondary effect of Opie’s bottomless appetite and foraging instincts, alluded to above, is the breakage. Oh, the breakage. Sometimes when he is prowling the kitchen counters, he inadvertently knocks plates or pots or glasses off the counter, or takes them down with him when we are trying to physically remove him.

Other times, it is totally advertent, especially if it’s close to his dinnertime, and he’s trying to get our attention. He’ll just nudge, nudge, nudge a little something off the counter, or a table, and…crash. (Followed by “OPIE YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” from me or Alastair.)

Honestly, you could tile an atrium floor with all the broken glass, china and pottery that has resulted from Opie’s dick antics over the years. That cat alone is responsible for the loss of several beloved serving dishes, more than one mug with sentimental value, and easily $500 worth of wine glasses. Note that Opie is careful not to break the wine glasses bought secondhand or at the Dollar Store; only the nice ones from Crate & Barrel that Alastair’s parents give us for Christmas. Or used to, anyway, before they realized it was a waste of money.

Opie’s other target of destruction is paper, which he shreds and claws at when he wants to be let out or fed. And we’re pretty sure he knows how to read because, without fail, he goes after checks, bills, signed forms and permission slips, and other things that actually matter—as opposed to junk mail or scrap paper. Most recently, he decimated a bunch of letters to Georgia voters that I’d printed out and was going to sign and send, thus proving that Opie is not only a pain in the ass; he is a Republican. No big surprise there.

Finally, there is the unprovoked aggression. I should note that this has radically diminished since we got Pepper. Chasing and wrestling with her seems to have given Opie an outlet for his predatory energy—which is, in fact, part of why we wanted to get another cat in the first place. But he still occasionally gets pouncy, and seemingly out of nowhere his ears will go back and he’ll lunge at us. (Any one of us but Alastair, that is, whom he seems to acknoweldge as the alpha male.) In fact, this behavior used to be such an issue that the kids were sometimes terrified to walk past him if he appeared to be a jumpy mood. When Elm was younger, they even created a helpful one-pager about it.

Look, I know what you’re thinking: Opie isn’t trying to be a prick. These are normal cat behaviors. And yes, that may be true. But let’s be honest: these are cat behaviors at the asshole end of the spectrum. I had cats when I was growing up, and Alastair and I had another cat before Opie, and none of these cats did the shit Opie does on a daily basis. Nor does Pepper. So, forgive me if I don’t always feel warm and fuzzy toward the guy.

Will I miss him when he’s gone? Yeah, I suppose. I mean, he’s a jerk, but he’s still family. And he’s cute. And a good napping companion. And a great pal for ‘lil Pepper.

Oh, fine. I guess I’m slightly thankful for him.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. I hope your holiday is heavy on pie and blessings, and light on assholes, feline or otherwise.

P.S. There’s a giveaway of my novel The Society of Shame happening over on Goodreads. Enter by Dec. 14 to win one of 50 advance copies! Getting lots of contest entries helps build visibility and buzz for the book, so thank you in advance for entering.

P.P.S. One of my fave bloggers / social media denizens / fellow copywriters since way back in my mom-blogging days, Liz Gumbiner (aka Mom101, and editor of Cool Mom Picks), just started a Substack. Check it out. Like me, she can’t pick a lane, and, also like me, she’s OK with that.