It is the truest testament to the old saying, you don’t choose a cat, a cat chooses you, when I tell you that my husband is the proud slave owner of the worst cat in the existence of cats. If someone made a movie titled, “Rosemary’s Cat” it would star Vi.
Meet Vi, short for Violet, named for Vi’s Cocktails which is where a friend found her abandoned. I’m a sucker for a stray furbaby and this little bit was teeny-tiny and slept in the crook of my arm or Katie’s arm for the first two months we had her.
After that we started calling her Violent. Which was sort of cute, but not really. Vi likes to eat the cords to cell phone chargers, video game controllers, bubble wrap, and has a wild addiction to cardboard boxes. She hides under the couch and waits for someone to sit down so she can rip their feet apart. Katie has friends who tell tales of assassination attempts by Vi.
Vi will bite you when you pet her, attack you for absolutely no reason whatsoever, and the only person in the house she will be absolutely docile with is Maggie. Maggie can pick this cat up and carry her around like a teddy bear and Vi will accept it. If Kate or I try any such nonsense she does her level best to open an artery.
As nice as she is to Maggie it’s entirely understandable if you are completely confused as to why I say she is Mike’s cat. In the pantry we had a box of canned cat food. Molly, our resident feline Queen, will not touch canned cat food, she will only eat canned tuna. In an attempt to make pantry space, Mike began feeding Vi, what he now refers to as, “meaty bits” a term that repulses all the other females in the house but is apparently music to Vi’s ears.
It wasn’t long before Vi began whining outside our bedroom door every morning usually long before 7am. Much to my irritation Vi doesn’t seem to care whether it is Tuesday or a glorious sleep-in Saturday morning. If the door is slightly cracked she will burst through it like a two year old on Christmas morning. Every. Morning. This is followed by her jamming her head into Mike’s face, purring loudly, and licking his toes should they be exposed.
Every morning I find myself witness to the “bathroom dance” which includes Vi prancing around Mike as he gets dressed, attempting to claw his feet from under the bathroom door while he is, ahem, indisposed, waiting for him outside the shower door, and sitting next to the sink while he brushes his teeth.
The next step to “meaty bits” involves her attempting to kill Mike as he makes his way down the stairs and she weaves in and out of his feet. This part of the journey also entails Mike, not quietly, telling her to “get out of the way!” unless it’s a grumpy morning and then it sounds more like, “Hey! Get the HELL out of my way! DAMMIT!” and more than a few times the cat has accidentally been kicked down the stairs. This does absolutely nothing to dampen her enthusiasm or her love of all things Mike-related.
All of this is followed by what some might term, “the big show” or 
“the big finale.” Vi prances around the kitchen, nearly getting knocked unconscious by the refrigerator door, still weaving in and out of Mike’s feet as he spoons “meaty bits” into her bowl and Mike explains to her (every single day) how much he hates cats and how he never wanted a cat. After this she eats it, licks the bowl clean, and sleeps under his chair while he works.
Lest you mistakenly think, much like Mike did at one time, that her “affection” is tied to the aforementioned “meaty bits” let me assure you that this could not be further from the truth. We listened to Mike bemoan this tragedy that had befallen him which included things like, “if just ONE of you would give her meaty bits, she would leave me alone!” and “She only does this because I’M the ONLY one who will FEED her!”
I was sick of listening to him complain and decided to test his theory. I got up and got dressed WITHOUT being molested by the cat, I might add. I went downstairs, safely and without incident. I arrived in my kitchen to find Vi following several paces behind me after she had made sure that Mike was not going to get up. She did not follow me around the kitchen. Instead she jumped onto the back of a chair and half watched me and half stared out the sliding glass door.
I wanted to make a solid effort so I dramatically opened the fridge and made noises at her. No response. I took the can of “meaty bits” out of the fridge and waggled it in her direction. Nothing. I got a spoon and tapped it on the can, no dice. I walked over and dished out her usual ration, she yawned, climbed down, and ate it.
Thirty minutes later the sound of Vi tangling up in Mike’s feet as he made his way down the stairs could be heard from three houses away, maybe four.
“Would you get off me! I hate cats!” He shouted as he made his way to the kitchen and the refrigerator. “Hey, I thought I still had a can of meaty bits in here?” He asked into the fridge.
“I already fed her.”
“You what???” Followed by a slight pause. “Awwww, her needs her meaty bits from her dad, yes her does.”
He baby talked to the cat. I wish I were joking. On the upside, he has stopped insisting she only likes him for the food. An added bonus is that she now purrs at me and expects me to pet her in the morning as long as Mike is still in bed and the great “Meaty Bits Processional” has not begun.
She is the first cat to have ever made me want a dog.
A big dog. A big dog that eats cats.
