Nurse the Hate: Hate The Cat

The cat had been a gift from her previous boyfriend.  The boyfriend was a young man it was easy to be dismissive of, with his passive aggressive manner.  He seemed meek, but that was just a con.  He always mentioned that he was either coming down with an illness or in the midst of recovery.  His dark sad eyes did the trick.  When he would look up at her with those wounded eyes, he would always receive comfort and attention.  I, of course, hated him and by default the cat he had left behind.

He always came up with reasons to come over to her house.  Thoughtful little gifts for her mother.  Returned cooking tools.  Used books.  It was always some flimsy manufactured bullshit.  If I happened to be there at the time of his drop in, he would skirt to the sides of the room, always avoiding direct contact with me.  He would shift topics of conversation to his strengths, areas that I had no experience or interest in.  Chamber music concertos.  Ethnic restaurant news.  Foreign film expos.  It was a game that he pretended he was not playing.  Just a nice fellow stopping by to offer considerate gestures.  No strings attached.  A quiet, thoughtful young man.  All the while the cat would flick its tail while sitting in the windowsill. 

I pretended it didn’t bother me, but it drove me insane.  I had never been in a conflict with no offense, no visible battle.  He was slowly gaining ground, working at solidifying his return, consistently demonstrating that he was the true match for this woman while I was some sort of beast.  It was easy to see.  I preferred dogs, while he was clearly a cat man.  Every time that goddamn cat walked across the apartment, it was like that passive aggressive young man strutted across the room declaring “I’m still here.”. 

The cat must have sensed my growing distaste for it.  If I slept over at the apartment, the cat would come roaring into the room at an ungodly hour and dive on my head.  It was like being attacked by a mongoose in the middle of a deep sleep.  This did not help solidify a bond between the cat and I.  In the morning, the cat and I would glare at each other while the woman obliviously sipped herbal tea. 

Making matters even worse, the cat loved the passive aggressive man.  Theirs was a mutual admiration society.  I would feel a slow burning fury when the cat jingled over to greet him when he dropped by with one of his thoughtful little presents.  “Oh, I just saw this used booklet of French poetry I thought your sister might like… Sure, I would love a glass of wine!”  The cat purred on his lap as he slowly sipped his wine.  He would never risk the outright aggression of smiling triumphantly at me when the woman left the room, but I swear to you that cat did.

Eventually he wedged me out of there, like we both knew he would.  I was ill-equipped for this drama.  I was a man from the late 20^th Century that was taking part in an 18^th Century parlor drama.  I didn’t know the rules.  It was like an act from the old theater productions they both loved whereas I was immersed in the films of Coppola.  I should have flipped the script and gone Godfather.  “Pauley?  Oh, you won’t see him round here no more…”

The last time I was ever in that apartment I remember walking to the kitchen table to retrieve my car keys.  There was a small round bistro table by the window.  It was one of those garage sale finds where if I had put it in my house it would have looked like garbage, but she had magically transformed it into something artsy and wonderful with a dash of paint.  The cat was stretched out across that table, my keys right in front of its head.  He flicked his tail with his eyes serenely closed.  As I put the keys in my hand he opened his eyes and I swear he smiled at me.

I still hate that cat.