Cat Attack

We’ve got a kitten.  “S’mores.”   S’mores is a few weeks old.  S’mores is a she.  Her claws are emerging and she is learning how to use them.  She’s been here for about a week or so and as it turns out, I end up spending most of the time with this young lady, as I’m the one who’s home most of the time.  

I’ve raised children.  Kittens are different.  Kittens arrive on earth with a preset for certain activity that aren’t as important for young humans.  Kids and kittens both eat, defecate, cry for attention, and sleep.  Check.  But kittens need to learn how to fight, early and always.  It’s cute when they jump on your foot and try to bite it.  It’s adorable when they chase balls of yarn around, but clearly they are in training to chase, feint and catch prey to survive.  This, and escape from lager animals.  S’mores knows somehow to drive this agenda from dawn to dusk.   One appreciates both the allure and the stupidity for trying to raise a tiger cub, for example or any other cute species that might eventually meet or exceeded your own body size.   

Alas, she isn’t sparring with a wise master.  She isn’t even sparing with a fellow feline.  Sparring with me must be odd.  But that’s all she’s got.  I type.  She jumps on my foot, unannounced and begins to gnaw it.  No.  That won’t do.  I’m trying to type.  At this juncture I can escort her outside and close the door or “play” with her for a bit.  I bawl up a fist and gently roll her on her back and borough it into her belly singing a song I’ll call “cat attack.”  (Based loosely form the head in Sun Ra's song "Saturn" from "Jazz in Silhouette.") S’mores digs this immensely.  Should she face off against a large, old bear with a thorn in one foot, she might stand a chance.  She bites my hand, claws my palm and as we pause, runs away and turns immediately around for more abuse.  We do the “cat attack” tune again and it is funny.  I laugh.  She’s cute.  I try to work again, and she has leapt upon my right foot, as I knew she would.  Now I escort her to the door. 

I’ve seen the big tabby cats climbing along the walls in backyard.  I suspect they’re wild and live as best they can off of families that put things out for them and the rats and birds they can catch.  They’re rough survivors who no longer evoke much of anything “cute.”  And what S’mores really wants is teachers like that.  Because if you’re on your own in the Beijing winter you’d need to outsmart, out fight, out run cats like that to get a bite to eat.  Here in the terrarium however, S’mores will keep returning to me for more specialized training in the art of the hunt: bite and scratch the hand, until it feeds you.