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Stop Trying To Make Fetch Happen

Stop Trying to Make Fetch Happen

Gwen Cooper

BenBella Books, Inc.

Dallas, TX

Copyright © 2018 by Gwen Cooper

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

BenBella Books, Inc.

10440 N. Central Expressway, Suite 800

Dallas, TX 75231

www.benbellabooks.com

Send feedback to feedback@benbellabooks.com

e-ISBN: 978-1-946885-88-3

Distributed to the trade by Two Rivers Distribution, an Ingram brand www.tworiversdistribution.com

I Choo-Choo-Choose You!

Even as I sit to type these words, I hear it. It’s the sound that’s come to define my waking hours and haunt my dreams, the first thing I hear when my eyes open in the morning and the last thing I hear at night before I fall asleep. Whether I’m writing, cooking, reading a book, cleaning the bathroom sink, talking with my husband, blow-drying my hair, or lying in bed, it’s always with me, like the beating of my own heart.

Rattle. Rattle. THUMP.

Rattlerattlerattlerattlerattle.

It’s the sound of a tiny, felt-covered plastic mouse—adorned at its tail with rainbow-colored feathers and filled with something or other that produces a rattling noise—being picked up and shaken vigorously by a cat, then dropped at increasingly closer intervals to my desk chair before being picked up and shaken again. Sure enough, when I swivel in my chair to look behind me, Clayton sits on his haunches about a foot away, his black fur groomed to a high gloss in the sunlight that streams through the window next to us. His golden eyes are impossibly round and hopeful as he stares at me without blinking.

“MEEEEEEE!” Clayton’s meow has no “ow” at the end, so he lives perpetually in the insistent first person. His voice is comically high-pitched and squeaky for such a stocky cat, and under different circumstances I’d probably laugh as he repeats “MEEEEEEE!” picking up and rattling the toy mouse once more for good measure. Its tail feathers curl to form a jaunty rainbow moustache beneath his little black nose.

But it’s already later than I had intended to begin my writing for the day, the precious morning hours of peak mental clarity slipping into the creative doldrums of early afternoon. My arm is sore from having spent the better part of two hours hurling that plastic mouse: pitching it down the stairs as I yawned my way out of bed, throwing it from the bathroom to the living room as I brushed my teeth, tossing it from one end of the kitchen to the other as I poured myself some orange juice, and spiking it from my office nook in the back of our little house all the way to the bay window at its front—then throwing the mouse again and again each time Clayton retrieved it.

Enough is enough.

“Clayton, I’m working,” I tell him, in a voice that’s meant to be stern but comes out sounding like a plea. “How can I afford to keep buying you toys if you won’t let me work?”

Human logic so rarely prevails with actual humans that I shouldn’t be surprised when it fails to move my cat. Still, for the first time all morning, he sounds uncertain. “Meeeeeee?” He lets the mouse drop from his mouth and noses it a few inches closer to me, reaching out to paw at my leg with gentle persistence. “Meeeeeee?”

His dip in confidence helps me find my own. “No,” I say firmly. “Playtime is over. I have to work now.” I make a show of turning away from Clayton and toward the computer keyboard, randomly hitting the keys to type nothing in particular as I watch him from the corner of my eye, trying to gauge if, indeed, he’s ready to let me move on with my day.

Perhaps my exaggerated determination has done the trick. More likely, however, is that the effort required to propel a three-legged cat up and down the stairs of a three-story house for two hours has finally sapped even Clayton of his energy.

Whatever the cause, I exhale a small sigh of relief as Clayton uses his powerful upper body to haul himself up to the windowsill next to my desk, stretching out his forelegs with the toy mouse balanced carefully between his front paws.

“Good boy.” I reach over to scritch him affectionately behind the ears, and he responds with a sleepy, subdued, “meeeeeee.” His yellow eyes are still fixed on mine, but the lids droop as he nods off into the first of today’s catnaps.

I turn back to my computer screen and start typing again—actual words, this time—while birds chirp outside the window and, from his perch beside me, Clayton begins to snore lightly. Serenity reigns in my sunlit writing nook. Finally, the game of fetch is over.

Well, maybe not over. But at least my demanding feline overlord seems willing to allow me a small window of time in which to get some actual work done.

For now. Until the next round of fetch begins.

* * *

Cat lovers are fond of referring to themselves as their cats’ “slaves” or “adoring servants.” Dogs have owners, cats have staff, the saying goes. I’ve repeated it myself often enough for humorous effect, but privately I never used to think of myself as being the servant of any dog or cat I’ve lived with. I’ve always indulged them, of course. I legitimately don’t know what the point of adopting an animal—especially a rescue animal—even is if not, at least in part, to allow yourself the fun of spoiling them silly.

I’ll freely admit, however, that nowadays I’m wholeheartedly and downright euphorically enslaved to my three-legged cat, Clayton, in a way I’ve never been with any other cat before—not even my blind cat, Homer, who burrowed so deeply into my heart that I felt as if he were literally my flesh and blood. Clayton hates to be alone, and if he awakens from a nap to find himself in an empty room, he’ll let out an anguished howl—and I always come running, no matter where I am or what I’m in the middle of doing. He pushes me like a slave driver, nipping at my ankles with his teeth when it’s his feeding time and I’m not walking to the kitchen quickly enough, or at my calves if I’m standing and talking to my husband, Laurence, or doing anything that doesn’t involve paying attention to Clayton. He has a habit, when I’m sitting at my desk and working on the computer, of hopping in semi-circles behind the desk chair, rising up on his one hind leg, every other hop, to nip at whatever parts of me he can reach through the chair’s lower back—usually my hips and rear end.

“Silly boy!” I’ll say with a smile, as I reach down to rub beneath Clayton’s chin and Laurence looks on in amazement at my cheerful benevolence.

If I’m reading a book, a throw pillow in my lap to prop it up on, Clayton will often pull himself up onto the couch and unceremoniously head-butt the book out of his way, installing himself in its place. Not only don’t I get angry at this, I don’t even get irritated. “Who da fuzzy wizzle man?” I’ll croon, my book forgotten. As I scratch Clayton’s back, he lifts his head at a regal angle and sprawls out to his full length atop the cushion on my lap. “Who got da mushy wizzle belly? Who such a good boy? Gooooooood boy . . .”

“It’s unbelievable how much better the cat’s treated than I am,” Laurence likes to grumble. He’s not wrong. There’s nothing more irksome to a bookworm like me than being pulled abruptly out of an engrossing read. If Laurence were to slap a book out of my hands and shout, “Pay attention to me right NOW!” he’d be treated to an earful of obscenities rather than a back scratch. I can state with near certainty that no affectionate rubs of his “fuzzy wizzle belly” would be in the offing.

Clayton, without question, fares much better.

Eventually, Clayton will flip onto his back and nestle in the crook of my arm, his nose wedged into my armpit (Clayton being something of an armpit fetishist) and his chin resting on my breast, which he kneads ecstatically with his front paws. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching My Cat From Hell, it’s that cats emphatically do not like being cradled on their backs like babies. But Clayton is the exception to this rule. Not only does he like it, he insists on it. At least once a day, while I’m working at the computer, he’ll crawl into my lap, flop onto his back, and snuggle himself in the bend of my elbow. I’ve learned to type with one hand so that the other is free to balance Clayton’s supine body against my chest—as if my arm were a baby sling—as he drifts into sleep.

“You did this to him,” Laurence says whenever he comes upon us in this Madonna-and-child pose. (Laurence likes to think that he’s much more measured and “reasonable” in his affections for the cats than I am, but when he thinks he’s out of earshot upstairs, I hear him with them. How’s my little man? he’ll say. Or, You’re a sweet kitty . . . yes, you are! Yes, you are!) “You made him this way.”

“Untrue!” I reply. “Clayton’s just naturally a very attention-seeking cat, and I’m just naturally the kind of person who pays attention to attention-seeking cats.”

There’s some truth to the idea that Clayton is far more people-oriented than even the friendliest feline. It’s one thing for a cat to leap immediately into the lap of every visiting guest, without so much as first giving a preliminary sniff or receiving a cursory pat on the head. But how many cats fling themselves—purring and rapturous—into the arms of a veterinarian who’s just given them a shot? You stuck a needle in me! I imagine Clayton saying. That means you’re paying attention to me! You’re my new favorite human!!!

Whatever natural, attention-seeking inclinations Clayton might have started out with have certainly been amplified by the sheer volume of time my cats and I now spend together. I adopted my first generation of cats—Scarlett, Vashti, and Homer—twenty years ago. Back then I was young and single, working long hours in an office all day and going out with friends or on dates at night.

But I adopted Clayton and his littermate, Fanny, in 2012. By then, I was already a full-time writer working from home, as was (and is) my husband. I used to be out of the house ten to fifteen hours on a typical weekday. Nowadays, Laurence and I will make a point of going somewhere, even if only out to lunch or to run errands, at least once every day. Some days we play hooky in Manhattan, taking in a movie or going to a museum for the bulk of the afternoon. We’ll go out a couple of nights a week to the theater, or to meet friends for dinner. Still, it’s not at all unusual for us to be home and with our cats for a good twenty-two hours in any given day. When I meet people at functions and they ask me what I do, I’m as apt to quip, I’m a stay-at-home cat mom as I am to go with the more serious-sounding I’m a writer. Both feel like equally accurate descriptions of my life.

Clayton and Fanny, in other words, are used to having near-constant access to their humans—and to human attention. Clayton spends his entire day in close proximity to me. If I go upstairs to talk to Laurence in his office—even if Clayton is in a deep slumber, and I’m only up there for a couple of minutes—Clayton will follow, eyes half-closed and dazed with sleep. If I head to the bedroom for a brief afternoon siesta, Fanny inevitably crawls out to join me from whatever hiding/sleeping spot she’s designated for the day—and a room that contains both Fanny and me is a room that Clayton absolutely must be in. Any foray into our first-floor kitchen—even a quick one to get a glass of water—automatically becomes a group excursion.

If I run out to the corner bodega, a mere half-block away, to get a can of soda, Clayton and Fanny race to greet me at the door upon my return as if I were coming home from the wars after a years-long absence. I can’t even describe how overwrought they are when Laurence and I get back from an overnight vacation, or a trip to do a book reading at an out-of-state animal shelter. Clayton and Fanny cling to us like two little black burrs—refusing even to let us go to the bathroom or take a shower unattended—and it takes days for things to return to normal. We thought you’d be gone forever! they seem to be saying. We thought you might never come home!

So we’ve become quite the codependent little foursome, Fanny, Clayton, my husband, and I. I often think that if cats could talk to each other, and if Clayton were to hear tales from other cats about humans who leave their homes for work every single day, and stay away for up to ten hours at a time, he would react with the same mingling of pity and horror I used to feel as a small child in Miami when my grandmother would tell stories about Life In The Olden Days—before there was air conditioning, television, or Cheez Doodles. “But what did you do?” I’d demand, fighting back tears at the thought of my beloved grandmother enduring such hardships. “How did you live?”

This is all by way of saying that when Clayton first taught himself to play fetch, and then decided that he really liked playing fetch—and then further decided that he wanted me to play fetch with him all the time—the stage had already been set for casual interest to develop into full-blown obsession.

* * *

Like so many great innovations, Clayton’s initial discovery of fetch was a happy accident. He’d always been fond of throwing games, particularly when they involved the crinkle balls and miniature plastic springs that were, not so very long ago, his favorite toys. I’d find one lying about, toss it a few feet away, and Clayton would run after it, batting it around for a while before finally losing interest and looking for something else to do.

That was more or less what I expected to happen one morning a few months ago when I spotted, lying next to my desk chair, one of the two little toy mice with rainbow tail feathers that I’d spontaneously bought for Clayton and Fanny the day before. When Clayton saw me lift it from the floor, his ears immediately pricked up and he sat at attention.

“You want this?” I said. “You want this, little boy?”

My tiny office nook sits off of our living room, and it was in that direction that I threw the mouse, watching as Clayton chased after it. When he caught up with it, he picked the mouse up in his mouth and shook it vigorously a few times, an instinctive “predator” reaction as much as a delighted response to the rattling sound the toy mouse made.

Something about Clayton sitting there on his haunches with that little gray-and-white mouse between his teeth—its merrily colored tail feathers curving upward toward his ear, as if he were an old-timey gentleman wearing a feathered cap—struck me as particularly adorable. “What a good boy you are!” I cried. “You’re a good, good boy, Clayton!”

My delight with him in that moment was obvious, and he responded to it by running back toward me, the mouse still clutched in his mouth only because, in his excitement to reach me, he’d forgotten it was there. There’s very little in this life that I find more endearing than Clayton’s hippity-hoppity three-legged run, his gait resembling a cross between a bunny hop and a drunken sailor trying to find his shore footing. And so, when he dropped the mouse and lifted his head toward my hand for a petting, I picked it up and threw it again.

Clayton’s second pursuit of the mouse was, if anything, even cuter than the first one had been. He ran for a bit, then slid the last few inches in dramatic fashion on his legless rear haunch, like a baseball player stealing home.

“Awwwwww!” I called after him. “You’re a good, good boy, Clayton!”

By now, Clayton was as happy with me as I was with him. Once again, he galloped back with the mouse still hanging from his jaw, eager for more praise and petting. I was lavish with both.

Technically, I was supposed to be working. I was on a deadline and had more than enough writing ahead of me to occupy the next several days, and then some. But, like most writers, a good fifty percent of my “work” time is spent procrastinating. (And at least half of the other fifty percent is spent thinking up new ways to procrastinate.) Watching my cat frolic with his toys was certainly a more appealing prospect than getting down to business. And so, once again, the little felt-covered mouse went airborne.

I think it was this third toss of the toy mouse that started the gears turning in Clayton’s mind. This time, he didn’t wait for me to praise him or tell him what a good boy he was before promptly running back to deposit the mouse at my feet. Instead of craning his neck to angle his head closer to the touch of my hand, he sat on his haunches and looked eagerly from my face above him to the toy on the ground, and then back again.

“Aha! So it’s a game of fetch you want, is it?” Before I knew it, an hour of toss-retrieve-repeat had flown by—at which point, Clayton, seemingly spent, pulled himself up the side of my desk, stepped down from the top of the desk into my lap, and flipped onto his back for belly rubs and a snooze.

Engaging as that hour of fetch was, I’d more or less forgotten about it by the time I sat down to dinner that night. Laurence had a story to tell that took precedence. A magazine-writer friend of ours, who’d been on the receiving end of months of verbal abuse from his new editor but had yet to stand up for himself, had finally brought matters to a head in the worst possible way: He’d meant to send Laurence a text complaining about his editor. Instead, he’d sent the text to the editor himself.

“He’d just gotten out of a meeting with the guy, and it was the usual barrage of sarcasm and insults. He meant to send the text to me, but two seconds later he realizes he’s actually sent it to his editor, whose name also begins with an L. And it says—”

“OW!” Looking down, I saw Clayton at my feet with the toy mouse on the ground between his front paws. I’d been engrossed enough in Laurence’s story not to have noticed Clayton’s soft pawing at my leg for attention—so he’d decided to step things up a notch and unsheathe his claws. “Don’t do that again,” I told him sternly, picking up the mouse and throwing it all the way across the kitchen. Clayton immediately tore after it. “Continue,” I said to Laurence.

“So the text says, ‘I can’t believe—’”

“MEEEEEEE!” Clayton was beneath my chair again. Dropping the mouse in front of me, he nudged it hopefully in my direction.

“Just one more time—okay?” I turned from Clayton back to Laurence. “I’m so sorry. Please go on.”

“‘I can’t believe I have to—’”

“MEEEEEEE!” This time, Clayton had chosen to bypass sitting at my feet and waiting for me to notice him. He’d pulled himself up onto an empty chair, hopped from there onto the kitchen table, and dropped the mouse into the middle of my dinner plate.

“Clayton!” I picked up the mouse, now covered in pasta sauce, and wiped it with my napkin. “Stop it already!” But of course, having cleaned the mouse off, I threw it across the kitchen for him to scamper after.

“What’s with him?” Laurence asked, watching as Clayton did his baseball slide across the kitchen floor, caught the mouse up between his jaws, and brought it back over.

“He taught himself to play fetch today.” Without even thinking about it, I reached down as I spoke to pick up and then toss the mouse. “Anyway, please finish the story.”

“It-said-I-can’t-believe-I-have-to-sit-in-meetingstaking-abuse-from-a-cretin-who-probably-can’t-evenspell-cretin,” Laurence said in one long rush, trying to get the full sentence out before Clayton could interrupt again.

“Yikes!” It was probably unclear to Laurence—because it was unclear even to me—whether I was reacting to the painful implications of that text or to the fact that Clayton was standing yet again on the kitchen table next to my plate. “Do you think it was really an accident, or do you think he was finally trying to break a bad pattern? Here you go,” I added as an aside to Clayton, and lobbed his mouse in the direction of the pantry.

“Bad patterns can be tough to break.” Laurence looked at me and rolled his eyes pointedly.

“Ain’t it the truth.” I sighed and shook my head sadly. And then I bent forward to pick up Clayton’s mouse, which he’d already retrieved, and threw it for him again.

* * *

The obvious question is, why did I capitulate so easily? When it was so very clear right from the start that Clayton’s new hobby, left unchecked, stood to play such a large and intrusive role in our day-to-day lives, why didn’t I try to stop it—or, at the very least, limit it?

Hindsight, as they say, is always 20/20—but, in my own (partial) defense, I’ll say this: When Clayton taught himself to play fetch, it was far and away the smartest thing he’d ever done.

We live in a 150-year-old row house in a leafy bedroom community just two train stops outside of Manhattan. Living in an old house has its charms (marble fireplaces! crown moldings!), but central air conditioning isn’t one of them. At the height of summer heat, we rely on a small window unit in our bedroom. In an effort to retain as much of the cold air as possible—while still giving the cats free access in and out—I’ll leave the bedroom door just ajar enough that it’s nearly closed but still easy for a cat to manage.

Fanny has no problem with this—and why would she? When she wants to come in, she simply nudges the door with her nose until it swings wide enough to allow her to pass. When she wants to go out, she slips her paw into the two inches of space between the door and the floor and pulls it toward her until there’s a large-enough crack for her to fit through.

I’ll admit that Fanny is particularly adept when it comes to doors. She’s figured out how to sit atop the railing of the third-floor balcony, which puts her right at the level of the knob on the upstairs bathroom door, and twist the doorknob with her front paws until it opens (something she does to startling effect if Laurence or I happen to be in there).

Still, it’s hard to claim that pushing open an already slightly open door requires much in the way of special skills or intelligence—especially for a cat.

And yet, for the first four years we lived in this house, Clayton couldn’t figure it out—despite having watched Fanny nose open the bedroom door when it was ajar a million times. Fanny didn’t have to watch anybody push on the door before she figured it out. Nevertheless, the mechanics of this process were beyond Clayton’s grasp. He’d sit outside that slightly open bedroom door, and cry and cry, until I got up to let him in.

To reiterate: Clayton, a cat (creatures universally acknowledged for their cleverness, even by their detractors), could not figure out how to walk through an open door unassisted.

I’d probably shred anyone who suggested in my hearing that Clayton isn’t as smart as other cats. Whenever Laurence says something to that effect—when he tells me, quoting an old Carol Burnett Show episode, that “Clayton’s got splinters in the windmills of his mind,” or, more succinctly, “Clayton’s a little doofus”—I deny it vehemently. “You’re just saying that because he’s so affectionate and outgoing,” I argue. “Only a cynic thinks that being friendly and trusting is the same as being unintelligent.”

But even I—privately, in my deepest, innermost heart—sometimes have to acknowledge that maybe . . . just possibly . . . Clayton is . . . well . . . perhaps not quite as bright as he could be.

Like many cats, Clayton likes to knock things off ledges or tables and watch them fall. Sometimes the thing he knocks over is, say, a drinking glass from the kitchen table, which then shatters on the ground. That’s an irritation, although arguably I have no one but myself to blame for leaving an unattended glass within reach. And, again, it’s something lots of cats do. But how often does a cat then proceed to walk around, blithely unconcerned, in the broken shards? Thank goodness that Clayton, docile as a stuffed animal, is patient enough to let me tend to his paws with tweezers and peroxide as I pull the glass splinters out.

There’s an old truism that a cat might touch a hot stove once, but after that he’ll never touch any stove again. That truism doesn’t apply to Clayton. If I’m boiling a pot of water, I have to sit next to it and guard it the entire time, because Clayton—despite having singed his fur once or twice—will insist on walking on the stove whenever one of the burners is on, seemingly mesmerized by the pretty blue flame. I’ve considered the possibility that maybe Clayton doesn’t feel pain—that his nerve endings might not reach all the way to his skin, or something of that nature—but he yelps when the vet gives him a shot, or when I pull the glass from his feet, or when he gets close enough to a hot stove to burn himself. He just appears to forget immediately afterward. He doesn’t seem to learn.

Most cats have two canine teeth. Clayton has one and a half. He lost the other half chewing the ear off a cat-shaped wooden footstool that I found at a flea market one day—and ended up having to put out with the trash that night. Clayton gets a high-quality moist food, daily Dental Greenies for healthy teeth (although it’s tough to see the point in vigilant dental care if Clayton’s just going to chew his own teeth off), and plenty of fresh potted cat grass and raw catnip—so it’s not as if he lacks for fiber in his diet. Still, he’ll insist on chewing on wood (I’ve seen him go after the very doorframes on occasion), on plastic, on the metal base of a slender desk lamp while it’s lit and hot to the touch. He’ll eat—or try to eat—fluff and dust that he finds on the ground, feathers that have shaken free of pillows, long pieces of string, serrated metal bottle caps, Popsicle sticks, bits of plastic shrink-wrap torn from newly opened DVDs, peanut shells, staples, paper clips, the cloth husks of toys he’s chewed to pieces, small thumbtacks I didn’t even know were there and that have spontaneously dislodged themselves from the undersides of furniture . . . I’ve become vigilant as a hawk in surveying the floors of our home, scouring the terrain for any random detritus that might find its way from the ground into Clayton’s mouth. Still, on a semi-regular basis, Laurence will rush to the top of the stairs upon hearing me yell, “No, Clayton! Drop it! DROP IT RIGHT NOW!” and find me wrestling with Clayton, my fingers down his throat, as I pull the latest hazard from his gullet before he can finish swallowing it.

I’ve seen cats through late-stage cancer, chronic renal failure, liver disease, blindness, diabetes, high blood pressure, hyperthyroidism, a heart murmur, colitis, sprained limbs, infected wounds, major and minor surgeries, and mysterious colds and fevers that took their appetites and required me to force-feed them through a syringe.

I can honestly say that I’ve never had to work this hard to keep a cat alive.

We have friends from Tennessee who visit us a few times a year—fellow animal lovers who live on a large hobby farm with ten rescue cats of their own. There are far more interesting things to do during a long weekend in New York than pass time at our house, hanging out with our cats. Still, they insist on spending a full day in our home whenever they travel north. Clearly, it’s because they adore Clayton, lovingly tolerant as he intrusively head-butts and nose-burrows his way into their armpits or wraps his whole body around their feet (Clayton being a foot fetishist as well as an armpit aficionado), enraptured by the exotic cornucopia of smells they bring with them. Sometimes, I suspect that Clayton is the real reason they head up this way as frequently as they do. And even they—perhaps after the third time that visit when Clayton has tried unsuccessfully to bring the heavy, well-secured andirons next to the fireplace crashing down onto his own head (WHY?! FOR WHAT POSSIBLE REASON?!!??!)—will eventually look at him with a kind of affectionate pity and murmur, “Bless his heart.” Which, for those not conversant in Southern-speak, is about as damning an accusation of unintelligence as a well-bred Southern lady will allow herself to express.

These days, I fret constantly whenever Laurence and I go out—whether it’s for a few days or only a few hours—about what would happen if someone were to break into our home and the cats got out. Break-ins, of course, have always been a hypothetical possibility wherever I’ve lived—and, on one memorable occasion many years ago, my South Beach apartment actually was broken into. But I’ve never worried as much about what might happen to my cats if they got out—not even my blind cat, Homer (and I worried about him a lot)—as I do now about Clayton. He’s microchipped and, thanks to my cat books, I have a large-enough reach among cat rescuers online that he stands a better-than-average chance of being found and returned to me. Plus, knowing Clayton, he’d probably throw himself at the first human who walked by—and hopefully that human wouldn’t be inhumane enough to leave a desperately affectionate, three-legged cat to fend for himself. Still, my deepest fear is that Clayton couldn’t take care of himself for even a day if he suddenly ended up alone on the streets.

Which is why, when Clayton taught himself—taught himself!—to play fetch, it wasn’t just that it was cute at first. Or even cute-but-also-maybe-sometimes-a-little-annoying. It was a revelation. It was a game changer. And he’d taught himself so quickly! Could even the cleverest cat have picked up the rudiments of fetch any faster than Clayton did?

I felt relieved—and also more than a little vindicated. See! I wanted to shout to any and all naysayers. Clayton is smart! He’s VERY smart! I always knew it! I knew it all along.

* * *

Having accomplished this one feat of learning—teaching himself to play fetch—Clayton quickly followed it up by mastering an entire brand-new set of associated skills. There was no particular challenge in getting me to take on a round of fetch when I was already alert and paying attention to him. Clayton, however, soon became an expert at getting me to play fetch even when I was deadset against it, and at the least-convenient times.

You can always tell which of Clayton’s toys is his favorite at any given moment, because the more Clayton loves something, the more gleefully he abuses it. A few years ago, someone sent us gifts for the cats—two versions of a toy rodent called Rosie the Rat, made from real fur. There was a black-furred Rosie and a tan-furred Rosie. Truthfully, I didn’t love that they were made from real fur, and was tempted to either toss them or donate them to our local cat shelter. But Clayton and Fanny went absolutely wild the second I pulled the Rosies from the envelope they’d been mailed in, which settled the matter; I couldn’t bear taking away anything that made them so happy.

Clayton immediately appropriated Black Rosie as his own special property, while Fanny laid claim to Tan Rosie. But even if you’d never seen Clayton hopping around with Black Rosie in his mouth, you still would have known that she, and not Tan Rosie, was his. I would find Black Rosie drowning in the toilet, peeking forlornly from beneath a heap of leftover moist cat food in Clayton’s dish, or buried in the litter box. Just about every day, I had to boil a pot of water so I could disinfect her before returning her to Clayton’s custody. Over the course of a few weeks, Black Rosie dwindled down to a few tattered wisps of patchy black fuzz clinging to a cloth skeleton. Eventually, the sad day came when I had to give Black Rosie a mercy burial in the trash can. Whereas Tan Rosie (Fanny’s Rosie) is still, three years later, in showroom-new condition—even though Fanny “kills” her every day, and leaves her as a “gift” for Laurence and me every night.

Once Clayton discovered fetch, it seemed as if the plastic rattling mouse, his new favorite toy, was fated to suffer the same abuse. It was only a couple of days later when I was forced to fish it out of the litter box—pulling it gingerly by its colorful tail feathers—before disposing of it in the trash as Clayton bounced around me in desperate circles, pleading for me to toss it across the room for him. I replaced it the next day (they only cost ninety-nine cents apiece at our local pet-supply store). But, still, once Clayton had seen me pick the toy out of his litter box—with a heartfelt “Ugh!” of disgust—and then throw it away rather than throwing it for him to fetch, it was like a lightbulb went on over his head. After that, I noticed how careful Clayton was to maintain his new little feathered mouse in immaculate condition. Not only did he refrain from burying or drowning it, I’ve actually seen him groom that mouse with his tongue until it’s spotless before carrying it over to lay at my feet. You can’t refuse to throw this one for me! he seems to be saying. This one’s clean as a whistle!

In sales, they call this overcoming a client’s objections. In Clayton, I’ll call it nothing short of genius.

As I mentioned, Fanny likes to leave little “gifts” for Laurence and me—one of her toys, if we’re lucky, or a palmetto bug or some other large bug that’s gotten into the house, if we’re not. She tends to leave them on our pillows, or sometimes on the bath mat directly in front of the shower, where we’re sure to see them as soon as we get out. That we notice her presents is very important to Fanny—she’ll cry anxiously until we find them and then pat her on the head, saying, “Thank you, Fanny!” (which is difficult to do with much sincerity when the gift in question is a giant headless cockroach).

Clayton, in contrast, has never been one for gift giving. Lately, though, I find that wherever I go in the house, Clayton’s rattling toy mouse has already beaten me there. It’s on my pillow at bedtime and on the rug in front of the sink when I go to brush my teeth. It’s atop the closed lid of the laptop computer on my desk when I sit down to work, on the kitchen counter when I go downstairs to make my lunch, and has beaten me to my favorite sofa cushion when I’ve finished work for the day and am ready to relax with Laurence.

The genius of this is that Clayton opts to place his mouse strategically where I’ll have no choice but to pick it up in order to get it out of my way. Once I’ve picked it up, I have to do something with it. Lobbing it across the room doesn’t require much more effort than just dropping it to the floor. So why wouldn’t I throw it? It would seem almost churlish not to—as Clayton’s wide, woebegone eyes are at pains to inform me: Are you really not going to throw it for me? Don’t you love me anymore?

I thought for a while that throwing the mouse up or down the stairs might solve some of my problems—that maybe Clayton would exhaust himself with all that up-and-down running, or that he might even decide to just play with it on his own once I was no longer in his sight line. That was a grave tactical error on my part. Clayton now loves racing up and down the stairs after the mouse more than anything else. When he walks, he slow-hops along as if he had a limp. When he trots, it’s with that hippity-hoppity/drunken-sailor gait that I love so much. But when Clayton tears up or down the stairs, he doesn’t just run—he flies. You’d never know, as he flashes past in a black blur, that he’s any different from a “normal” cat.

Now Clayton wants me to throw the mouse up or down the stairs for him all the time. If I’m in bed, it’s not enough to simply hurl the mouse toward a far corner of the bedroom. I have to sit up in bed, lean forward, and curve my body around so that I can angle the toy through the bedroom door and down the stairs. Clayton, who once couldn’t figure out how to pass through a slightly open door, mastered that skill with ease once he was sufficiently motivated. I’ll hear his paw-steps coming up the stairs and know that within seconds the wedge of light from the hallway will grow as Clayton swings the bedroom door open wide—and then I’ll see Clayton himself, standing next to my side of the bed, the beloved toy mouse clutched between his teeth as its colorful feathers glow in the half-light against the blackness of his fur.

Whether I’m awake or asleep makes no difference. If I’m there lying down, Clayton hauls himself onto the bed, walk-hops right onto my chest, and drops the mouse under my chin. I’ll fight to keep my eyes closed, thinking that if I can feign sleep convincingly enough, he might buy my act and relent.

It never works. Eventually, Clayton will bring his nose directly level with mine and proclaim, “MEEEEEEE!”

Roughly translated, this means, Oh, please. Even I can tell you’re faking.

* * *

All cats have their habits and routines, their little rituals that they perform so repetitively, and in so precisely identical a manner each time, that it seems to border on the compulsive. Some of these rituals become permanent; some are temporary but intense. And while there are some habits it’s nearly impossible to break a cat of, the truth is that I probably could have nipped Clayton’s fetch obsession in the bud if I’d really wanted to. If I’d said no often enough, he would have gotten the point eventually and left me alone. Even now, when it’s become such an integral part of his daily routine, if I could muster the willpower to be firm for a few days, I could probably cure him of his addiction—or at least tamp it down enough that I’d have more of a say as to the specific times and locations in which our game would take place.

And yet, despite his persistence and the hassle and the interruption of my sleep schedule and the frequent disruptions to my work, I’ll admit that I find myself reluctant to do anything to stop him.

Maybe it’s because I’m no longer the same person I was twenty years ago, when I adopted my first three cats—those early years of cat-ladyhood when I proudly distinguished between myself, an indulgent but still in-control caretaker, and those who referred to themselves as their cats’ slaves. These days, I’m more apt to appreciate the fleeting nature of a cat’s obsessions—of a cat’s life. Clayton is still young, but time moves much faster than it used to. Just yesterday, Clayton was a kitten. Today he’s five. Tomorrow he’ll be a little old man struggling to lug himself around on his three legs. His days of flying up and down the stairs like greased lightning in pursuit of a toy mouse will be a distant, cherished memory. Much sooner than I’m ready for it, I know, a time will come when I’ll think, What wouldn’t I give to play fetch with Clayton just once more!

No matter how irritated I may get at being interrupted while I’m working or sleeping (or paying my bills, or making a sandwich, or canoodling with my husband), how can I not smile when I see how a humble game of fetch makes Clayton so happy? So happy! His thick club of a tail points straight up and vibrates with his joy. When he does that theatrical, high-speed, baseball-player slide of his, I always, always laugh.

Every single time.

The joy of spoiling our cats is that, in giving them simple pleasures, we get them right back. And they remind us that, no matter how complicated our lives, or how complex our relationships, or how sophisticated our desires and goals may become with the passage of years, those simple pleasures are still the ones most worth having. Even as they become harder to find and hold onto.

I’ll confess, though, that I can’t help missing the old days sometimes. The days when, sure, maybe some people thought Clayton was just a loveable dolt—but at least I got eight hours of uninterrupted, fetch-free sleep every night.

It’s not in the nature of masters to pity their slaves. Clayton, as much as I know he loves me, is no exception. “Clayton,” I’ll plead to no avail, “I’m trying to write!” Or, “Clayton, I need to sleep!” or, “Clayton, Laurence and I want some ‘alone time’ right now.”

Alas! My pleas fall on deaf, fuzzy ears.

Awakened from a sound sleep at five in the morning to a piercing “MEEEEEEE!” two inches from my head, I’ll put on the best I mean business! voice I can muster in the pre-dawn hours. “Clayton,” I’ll tell him, “stop trying to make fetch happen. It’s not going to happen.”

But that’s a lie, and we both know it. Of course it will. It always does.

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