Genghis Cat is one angry mo’ fo’ of a kitten.
Of course, we may have somewhat shaped his destiny by calling him Genghis Cat. Let’s face it: the pages of history contain few killers by the name of Mr Fluffkins.
Unlike the other characters featured in this blog, I’m not giving Genghy a nom de guerre. A cat this cranky shouldn’t really have his anonymity preserved – if anything, he should have an AVO taken out against him. I don’t care to count the number of times an unsuspecting and already hard-done-by parent has been attacked, unprovoked, on the way to the toilet in the early hours of the morning.
But it wasn’t always this way. He came to us as a small grey bundle who hid in corners and who I cradled gently to emulate the warmth and security of the mother cat he’d left behind. He was the little cat that turned me instantly from a distinctly *non*-cat person to a “I-like-this-cat” person. As my dear friend KT said, “Well it’s just about now in the cycle of things that you’d be pregnant again.” She had a point. We’d been churning out children every two years and my husband’s vasectomy had put an end to all that. A kitten seemed the perfect thing to fill my achingly empty arms.
But what we didn’t realise when we brought him home was that there was a Jungle Beastie lurking within – one that could turn any household chore into a siege situation. Nothing enhances washing the dishes quite like the jaws of a small creature around your ankles.
Nor did we realise that, by acquiring a cat, we would immediately sever the bonds of friendships with a number of people harbouring previously undisclosed cat allergies. Whether or not they really had the allergies or just saw a convenient way out of our lives, we’ll never know.
Nor did we foresee my husband would have to give up his morning meditation. It’s hard to feel at one with the universe with a cat clamped firmly on your vitals – although some might argue this is a true example of instant karma.
And we certainly never dreamed that getting a kitten could further damage our already sagging public image. My typically disheveled children now have cat scratches across their hands and faces to join the Milo stains on their shirts and their perennially missing shoes.
Still, we all love Genghy. We feed him, we play with him, we pat him, we clean his kitty litter tray (although, with the kitty litter, by “we” I mean me). And most of all, we admire him because, as the smallest member of the household, he has garnered a lot of power. Even the fearsome Tiddles McGee (aged 21 months) is learning to show him deference.
But now I fear that some greater mischief is afoot. Since we did our civic duty by getting Genghy de-sexed and microchipped, there’s been a new edge to it all: a sense of growing resentment, a rising tension between beast and owners, a promise of payback Big Time.
If I happen to look out into the garden, more often than not I see him there looking straight back at me, as if he were channeling Robert De Niro himself from “Cape Fear”. Even as I type, he’s out there somewhere, lifting weights and getting tatts, and watching… planning… waiting…