Beneath that darling, Siamese face is a dark lord plotting to conquer any living being that will submit to his nefarious power. Until recently, Evil Cat has wielded minimal influence. The most he has accomplished was frightening those who dared to enter the basement in my former Chicago home. Since the washer and dryer were in this basement (as were Evil Cat’s litter box and food and water), I frequented what he considered prime territory. Somewhere in the darkness he lurked, waiting, plotting. Well aware that the instant I stepped into the basement that I was the hunted, I tried to carry on without showing the slightest sign of apprehension, because, as we all should know, Evil Cat feeds off of our fears. No matter how I prepared myself for his trumpeting meow, the hair on my neck always stood on end. I would whirl around to face my attacker. But I never, ever saw him. From the recesses of the shadows, he’d bellow, calling for my death. I’d cram the washer full of clothing and make for the basement door seconds before Evil Cat lunged from the darkness to slay me.
As you might expect, in my new home Evil Cat is not permitted in the basement where his power quickly became too great. This severely inhibits his measured steps to take over the house (AKA The World). But he’s quick to change and adapt his methods. And this weekend I think I might’ve uncovered his newest and most diabolical plan yet.
Evil Cat thinks that my bed belongs to him and I am merely a humble, nightly visitor. This means that how the bed was originally positioned in my room is how the bed should remain FOR LIFE. When I set my bed up in the summer, I enjoyed the open window and cool breeze moving over me in the night. Now that it is winter, I don’t very much like a cold draft. Getting sick is not my idea of fun. The only solution was to turn the bed 90 degrees away from the window.
For most animals, meaning humans, the shift of a bed 90 degrees is moderately interesting. You see the room differently from this new perspective. Light hits at unfamiliar angles. The path to the bathroom is altered. It adds a little spice to the boring ol’ bedroom. But for Evil Cat, my moving his throne is roughly akin to Moby Dick rising out of the water to swallow Ahab and his whaleship, Pequod.
Of course, I did not warn Evil Cat of this attack. I waltzed in, clutched a corner of the metal bed-frame, and tugged on it with all my might. Evil Cat, curled up on his throne, quietly meowed in protest. I tugged again. He meowed louder just in case I didn’t hear him the first time. When I didn’t show any interest, his meow exploded into raw, feral outrage. He bared his teeth. He hissed. But he did not budge from his spot. “This is MY nest, human!” he roared.
I wasn’t about to sleep one more night under that damn drafty window.
Grunting, I grabbed the opposite side of the bed frame and dragged it across the floor to align with the wall. At this, Evil Cat leaped onto all fours, arched his back, and hissed and hissed. His tenor meow descended into a bass growl. My two mutts standing in the doorway didn’t edge toward the commotion–they knew better. They remained helpless spectators as I faced off against the enemy.
Despite his fury, Evil Cat didn’t dash out of the bedroom like most animals. His whole world was shifting underneath him, yet he held his ground like a proud, motherfucking hop-lite soldier. But I, Moby Dick to Evil Cat’s Ahab, yanked the blankets off of the bed in brazen defiance. He sailed across the room and, like magic, disappeared into thin air. He was gone. The room fell silent. Too silent. His rage lingered, aloft in the charged air.
Evil Cat didn’t return to the room for 48 hours. Cats can only hold a grudge for two days. They don’t seek revenge so I’m told.
But I was wrongly informed. Oh, so wrongly informed.
To be continued…