To conquer his fear, I applied masking tape and Post-It notes. Yesterday it was binder clips.
Patrick’s sister, Evelyn stood and looked at the cat. “Do you think it’s working?”
He lay on his side, his grey fur covered in small paper patches. His short legs jutted out. He looked at me then Evelyn and back again. His head never moved.
“I think so.” I looked him over. “Does he look like he’s in a body cast to you?”
My plan started out simply. Dress the cat in brightly colored, cheaply made flammable clothing. It was a clown costume with Velcro strips down the front and a small pointy hat secured by a chin strap. I envisioned Christmas cards with a 3 point border of red balloons and Comic Sans font hailing everyone a Happy New Year.
Maybe he sensed what would have happened because he refused to cooperate. Then he did what any animal would when torn between fight or flight. He fainted.
Actually, he went limp and fell to the floor, fell being a relative term when you’re less than 12 inches tall.
Things that short don’t fall so much as sag until they reach the floor. The whole thing looked rather convincing.
“He looks like he’s playing dead, waiting for you to go away.” She walked back to the kitchen.
She had only come over to drop off a tablecloth. Evelyn was a regular Martha Stewart devotee, complete with a twelve service china set, tablecloths in every shade of blue and a rhubarb recipe you’ll only ever have once in your life.
She stood in the doorway. “Do you want something to drink?”
“No thanks.”
I love a challenge. Some people get off on shopping, like Evelyn. At Saks, she once knocked a bottle from a stroller to grab the last camel hair sweater on the display table. It was 40% off. I don’t shop. I become fascinated when I hear the word no. It drives me to work harder.
Everyone should be motivated by something and my dream of feline fashion plates wasn’t dashed so easily. I couldn’t even bring myself to consider Halloween. The excitement was too much. Puss N Boots, Ewoks, the possibilities were endless.
She sat on the floor next to me and pulled back the tab on a can of diet Coke. “Why are you biting your lip?”
“Hand me that box of rubber bands over there, will you?”
“Aren’t you ever afraid he’ll bite you?” she said.
“We have an understanding.” I doubled the rubber band. “I’ve bitten him back enough so that he doesn’t bite me anymore.”
She started coughing and set the can down. “You bite your cat?”
“Only a few times. It’s how they talk.”
Patrick’s family wasn’t exactly pet friendly. The closest he and his sister came to having a pet was a tarantula he lost after a few months.
“Well, what are you going to do with the rubber bands?” Her arms were folded. It’s more difficult than most people realize to find help that shares your sense of purpose.
“He has to reach his breaking point.” The left corner of her mouth pulled toward her cheek. She stared at me.
“He’s fine,” I said. “He’s not hurt you know. We just have to keep applying stuff until his flight instinct kicks in.” I uncrossed my legs and folded them under me.
“Then what?”
“When he runs, he’ll realize there’s nothing to be afraid of and he’ll get over it.” Reach the next level or have a breakthrough would have implied more tenderness. With a skittish audience and small scared cat playing dead in front of you, the words get over it didn’t seem to sit too well.
I slid the doubled rubber band over his tail.
“Okay. Now what?” She said. The words now what sounded stern.
I picked him up and tried to set him on his feet. He tipped over. A yellow post-it note fell away. I stuck it back on.
“Go in the next room and bang on the wall.”
“What? Why?”
“He’s scared of loud noises. If you hit hard enough it should scare him into moving.”
“Okay, that’s it.” She stood over me. “Does Patrick know about this?”
“Know about what?”
Another yellow post-it note had fallen off and lay beside him.
She rolled her eyes. “This is crazy. You’re torturing the cat.” She bent down and removed everything but the rubber band.
“Are you serious? They’re paper products, not three inch screws. Beanty has an irrational fear. There’s no reason for him to be afraid of things on his body.”
He scooted across the carpet, unable to bring himself to walk with the rubber band.
“Yeah and do you really think this is helping him get over it?”
I realized she was right. I hadn’t thought it through.
With the treats in one hand and post-it notes and tape in the other, I heard the door slam behind me. Everyone’s motivated by something.
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{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
Patrick is lucky. In my family one has to make an appointment to be in the presence of the cat.
And we would be the ones wearing the post it notes.
Nice motivational tail…er…tale!
Thanks Marisa. Secretly – we’re the ones wearing the Post-it notes too.