A Tale of Three Kitties

by Gwen Cooper — May 16, 2007

I've always been of the vague and highly unscientific opinion that much can be learned about my boyfriends based on how well they receive, and are received by, my three cats. I remember one man, for example--a Venezuelan and somewhat prone to superstition--who was entirely put off by my blind cat, Homer. Homer is black and has no eyes (see my earlier blog, "Cats and the Single Girl," for a more detailed explanation), and this proved inordinately freaksome for Mr. Venezuela. The first time he spent the night, I came out of the bathroom the next morning and found him and Homer in a Mexican standoff, hissing at each other--literally. Poor Homer was terrified, and I was enraged.

"Let me explain the pecking order around here," I told my soon-to-be erstwhile companion as calmly as I could. "The cat lives here; you do not."

Like so many men, Robert is not especially prone to liking cats. But, lord love him, I know he tries for my sake. My oldest cat, Scarlett, sized him up immediately and apparently found him lacking--but, then, Scarlett's that cat who the people who hate cats think of: surly and aloof, and utterly uninterested in any living creature other than the one human who feeds her (that would be me). I think she views Robert as simply the newest cat in the house, and takes every opportunity to assert her superiority of place by swiping at him--claws extended--whenever they pass each other in the hall.

"I think you should try feeding her when you're here," I suggested to Robert the other day. "Maybe if she associates you as a food source, she'll understand the difference between you and the cats and respect you more." Robert simply rolled his eyes grimly and refused to comment.

Homer, usually so engaging with new people, is scared witless by Robert. He cringes, cowers, and runs for his life whenever Robert enters the room, refusing to make even the slightest overtures of friendship. But Robert's voice is so deep and loud--more so by far than any man I've ever dated--I can only assume that, from Homer's perspective, it sounds like the booming voice of God.

None of this would bode well if it weren't for the reaction of my middle child, Vashti. I took Vashti in when she was three weeks old, and she was such a tiny, filthy, bedraggled mess at the time that it's astonishing to see the long-haired, exotic, stunningly beautiful white cat she grew into. Vashti is sweet-natured and loves meeting new people, but she's always let it be known in subtle ways that Mommy is her favorite person of all.

Not so anymore; Vashti has taken to Robert with a vengeance the likes of which I've never seen. Robert sleeps later than I do, but Vashti has developed an internal clock that signals her when it's close to his standard wake-up time, and she paces impatiently in front of the bedroom door until he comes out. Robert has his own set of keys to the apartment now, and when he comes over in the evening--as soon as his key hits the lock--Vashti runs for the door with a sort of purring coo that I've never heard her make in the 11 years I've had her. When Robert and I hug or kiss or are in any way affectionate with each other, Vashti comes over to wedge herself between us, meowing--softly, because Vashti is nothing if not ladylike--for her share of the attention. And when Robert and I are...um...having "grown-up time" in the bedroom, Vashti will meow insistently from the living room until Robert finally comes out, at which point she arches her back, flips her tail up in the air, and prances in little circles in front of him, as if to say, "See what you're missing by being in there with her?"

I'm honestly thinking about changing her name to Soon-Yee.

And, yet, I really can't complain; the whole "I hate cats and you have three of them" thing might have become a major stumbling block in our relationship, if not for Vashti. Robert's quite tickled by all the attention he gets from her. He talks constantly about how beautiful she is--"She really has a perfect cat face, doesn't she?" says this man who doesn't like cats--and I've heard him, on occasions when he thinks no one is listening, cooing, "Who's my Vashti? Who's my pretty girl?" In the long run, Vashti may be doing more to keep him here than anyone else.

Maybe she's much, much smarter than I ever gave her credit for.

Gwen Cooper is the author of Diary of a South Beach Party Girl, recently published by Simon & Schuster. To read all of Gwen Cooper's posts in "The Dating Life," click here.