Fanny's Feline Wiles

Growing up, my parents allowed us very little freedom. There was a curfew and by golly, if you didn't make it, you better get down on your knees and pray for mercy from up above. There were rules. So many rules. If I dared to speak on the phone more than once in an evening, or gasp for longer than five minutes, you would have thought I was plotting to murder my baby sister in her sleep with a pair of wire hangers and some duct tape. It never occurred to my dad that I may be talking about, say, I dunno, boys?

But for all my parents perceived faults, the one thing they did allow us, was pets. Lots and lots of pets. We had dogs, cats, goldfish, budgies, rabbits and guinea pigs, often all at the same time. We had our very own menagerie. And so began my love affair with all things small and furry.

I got my very first cat when I was eight. I carried him home in my yellow and red McDonald's knapsack at lunch time. (Ever try putting a cat in a pillowcase, dear internet? Go ahead, I dare you.) I survived that sharp walk home and so did my cat, Casper.

Since then, my life has been filled with pets. (Although, I never tried putting a cat in a knapsack again.) They've come and gone, but they have always left a fondness in my heart.

Then I married my husband. Who used cats as target practice to sight in his rifle. Who would gun his truck to try and run them over. (Oh my, I just realized how much a hillbilly my husband really is. At least he never had a gun rack on the back of his truck. That's something, I suppose.) Or how about the time he squished the pup with the tractor tire and then said "Shit. Damn dog should have moved."

Yes, that's my husband, dear internet, beloved father, devoted husband, and animal lover extraordinaire.

After many tears, (and threats of never seeing me naked again,) he finally broke down and allowed me a cat. Which then multiplied into many cats. Until I had cats coming out of my ears. Quite literally. But I was in kitty heaven. I didn't mind changing the litter box. I was just so happy that I had my cats. In the house.

When I finally realized twelve cats inside a 600 foot square house was a tad too many kitties, they all went outside. Except one. My Fanny. She was my love and she had the run of the couch.

Then, one day, my darling cat ruined it for all of us. She took offense to my dear hubs. Apparently, she had grown weary of his bad attitude towards her and all other four legged critters, and she thought to teach my man a lesson.

She would poop in his shoe. Then the next day she would poop in his other shoe. She would swipe at his legs, maliciously. Hiss at him when he walked past. But the straw that broke my darlings back, was not once, but two nights in a row, she climbed on to his chest while he slept, and peed all over him. And then curled up next to me.

Hee Hee.

I no longer have Fanny in the house. Sniff. But I still have Fanny.

Saved from certain death by threats of divorce or worse.

While the hubster never grew fond of Miss Fanny cat, he did develop a new appreciation for her feline wiles. And how she managed to wrap herself around my finger.

And now, when Fanny cat boxes my poor Nixon, he absently scratches the dog's ears and tells him there is just no fighting with a female feline.

We always win.