Pru nodded, as if she could possibly comprehend what might constitute cat stress. Sleep, eat, sleep. Sure.
She listened while Dr. Bond explained how to clean the entire apartment with a special enzymatic cleaner, and then cover the bookcases and the cat’s other favorite spraying spots with plastic tarps. She would have to keep the tarps clean, too, throwing them out if they became wet and replacing them with new ones. He stopped then and said,
“How is this so far?”
Like too much work for a cat I hate, she thought. But there was something commanding and reassuring in his tone, so she nodded for him to go on.
“Let him have his run of the place during the day—even your bedroom. It’s a special place to him now, off-limits, which is why he wants back in there so desperately. I understand your need to sleep, so you will have to confine him at night. But during the day, Whoop is allowed to go wherever he wants. Put all your food and your”—he consulted her folder again—“vintage cashmere sweaters out of reach.
“Next, let him eat whenever he wants. I think maybe he’s attacking your food because he’s hungry, or he perceives he’s hungry. You need to leave a bowl of dry food and one of fresh water out for him at all times.”
“So, basically, let him do whatever he wants.”
“That’s right.”
“But look at him,” Pru couldn’t help saying. “He’s so fat he’s going to explode. Isn’t it really unhealthy for him to eat all day?”
“You were going to bring him back to the shelter, where he certainly would have been euthanized. Does it really matter how he dies?”
At this point, the cat himself ventured out from his hiding place. His tail was pointing straight up in the air, giving him a very smug look.
“Oh, hush, you,” Pru said.
She could have sworn Dr. Bond had grinned slightly at that. But he quickly turned somber again, and said, “Last, and this will probably be the hardest thing for you, I want you to play with Whoop whenever you can. Drag a string for him, rub him between the ears, let him bat around a foil ball. Don’t just leave things out for him, or he’ll get tired of them. Get down there and play with him. I think you’ll find that if you pay attention to him during the day, he won’t be so needy at night. And it’ll be good exercise for him. Since you’re so concerned with his obesity.”
Although she didn’t particularly like his recommendations, she found herself pleased that he was telling her exactly what to do. It sounded so clean and orderly, his plan. Finally, someone who had the answers. She watched the silver pen in his hand flash as he made his notes. She wanted to throw out her other problems, just to see what he’d say. Just to watch that beautiful pen spell out the detailed, easy-to-follow plan he would create for her. “What about me?” she wanted to shout. “I’m stressed, too! I’m a good girl, a handsome girl!”
The cat chose that moment to do something he’d never done before: He came over to Pru and rubbed up against her legs. Suck-up! she thought.
“See?” said Bond, more pleasantly. “He’s really not so bad. Are you, big boy?”
She cleared her throat. “What about the Prozac?”
“I don’t think it would do him any good. Let’s make these adjustments first and see what happens.”
Dr. Bond showed her how to lure Whoop backward into his cage and close the door without alarming him. Dr. Bond gave her a couple cans of diet cat food and some cat toys and said she should call him in two weeks to report on their progress.
The cat had settled right down in his cage and was beginning to wash himself. As she was leaving the office, two women stood talking together in the outer lobby. One of them had a small beagle sort of dog on a leash that kept leaping up to nip the other woman in the crotch. Neither woman did anything about it. The woman being nipped didn’t even put a hand down to shield herself. There was a wet smear on her skirt from the dog’s nose, but they both continued to talk and pay it no mind.
Pru just couldn’t understand that. Was that where she was headed? Would she, too, slide so far down that spiral that soon she’d be walking around with kitty pictures in her wallet and a rear end covered in pet hair? From there, it was the tiniest leap into total and complete acceptance that the good life, as she’d known it, was over. She could kiss her self-esteem good-bye, along with any remaining impervious pieces of her heart.
COVERED IN THE PLASTIC TARPS, HER APARTMENT ENDED up looking like an auto detailing shop, and not the funky artist’s loft she’d hoped that it would.
“Here we go,” she said to the cat, unlocking the door of the cage. The cat hesitated, then came bounding out. He was making his usual beeline for under the couch, when he spotted his supper dish. It was an oversized Tupperware that was designed to hold, by the look of it, six or seven lasagnas, and now contained eight and a half pounds of Science Diet Hairball Control Light. He approached the bowl gingerly, not daring to believe his incredible bounty. He sniffed, then began wolfing down the food, glancing up at Pru to see when she was going to get up and snatch it from him. Pru sat down at the table with the newspaper and began reading. She stayed where she was while the cat lapped at his water, sniffed at the tarps, and ran through the apartment a few times. He hid from her when she folded up the paper and stood up, but, as she was preparing her dinner, he crept out and began bounding around again. He even came into the kitchen
