Somewhere, I'm sure, perhaps tucked away in a dusty library, is someone's master's thesis or dissertation on the intricate psychological interactions of just-married couples and the pets they bring to their new household. The comforting power of pet contact is well-documented, and most of us would testify to the quality they add to our lives. Pups and kitties are taken to nursing homes and hospitals to make patients feel comforted and less agitated.
Beloved pets have been reported to warn their owners of would-be intruders, awaken them from a sound sleep just in time to escape a house fire, and generally offer love and support on a daily basis. So you would think that a pet would be a nice buffer in a new marriage, a neutral party that might help ease a husband and wife into the complexities of sharing a home - and a life.
That might be true of dogs. They're forgiving souls. But cats hold a grudge.
To be fair, it's not Hank's fault. He was there first. I adopted him as a tiny kitten at the behest of a dear friend's children. Those charming little con artists, whose mama cat had recently given birth, somehow convinced me, a single working woman on the go, to become a cat owner.
Actually, that's not true. No one owns a cat. We serve them. We meet their every need, indulge their slightest whim. Why? In hopes that they will occasionally take a passing interest in us, which makes us feel downright fascinating because everybody knows that cats are easily bored.
Anyway, Hank the Cat and I bonded. I might mention here that I'm a farm girl whose parents believed that people live in houses, while animals live outside. Daddy called one cold winter day and warned me to be sure and check under the hood of my car before cranking it because cats have been known to climb in there to get warm.
"Why would he do that," I asked, "when he has a double bed with a fluffy comforter, central air, and Animal Planet?" Suffice it to say, Hank does not live outside. He goes outside when he feels like it, just to let other cats know who rules our hill, or to visit our neighbors, the McKinneys, whom he adores. But he lives inside.
And so you can understand why he might take it hard when another man came onto the scene. My husband, Dave, and I had just come home from our honeymoon when the reality of the situation hit Hank like a can of tuna to the head. I had gone to bed early one night, and Dave had fallen asleep in the recliner (yes, I know they're not stylish and we're not supposed to admit that we own them, but there it is).
About 2 a.m., Hank leapt onto the bed and began anxiously poking at my face with his paw. To his credit, he has mastered doing this while keeping his claws retracted . . . when he feels like it. He was meowing like crazy. And it was not his conversational meow. It was his, "Timmy's in the well! Come quick!" meow.
I staggered out of bed and followed him to the living room. He led me straight to the recliner and stood, frozen on all fours, before my snoring new husband. He looked at Dave, then up at me, as if to say, "Did you drag this in? 'Cause I know I didn't." Another look at Dave. Another thoughtful look up at me. I read his feline mind: "I think he'd be happier outside. Don't you think he'd be happier outside? Come on, I'll help you push him through my cat door. It'll be tight, but we can do it. Might have to put some butter on him, but that's no big deal."
Since that night, I have watched Hank make a few furrtive (ha) attempts at friendship with Dave. He has extended the paw of brotherly love only to be rebuffed. My husband says the cat stares at him disconcertingly. "Talk to him," I suggest. My husband thinks about it, looks in Hank's direction, and says "Go outside."
As for Hank? Sometimes, when Dave's not looking, Hank sits in his chair. And he doesn't even like recliners. Now that's communication.
