Warning: this post is all about cats.
When my mother-in-law agreed to spend her fall semester leading a teaching program in Germany, we insisted on taking in her one-year-old kitten during her absence.
We’ve thought about getting another cat to complement the one we’ve got, so here was a chance to take a test run; Sophie is an amiable little being who emits a soft ‘mee’ instead of a full-blown meow, and obsesses with sinks.
Nina accepted our offer, but wondered if the resident feline would be as welcoming.
“Maggie will just have to adjust,” we said.
We had visions of Sophie following Maggie around like a kid sister. They’d sit in the window to watch birds; they’d sleep on the couch and chase toys around the living room.
The same weekend we picked up Sophie we met nephew number two. Renate flew down two days early to help with meals and to goo over little Henno, who currently looks a lot like Winston Churchill.
(My in-laws are such skilled parents by now they can raise a child using only one arm.)
Potential holiday card photo of the Johnson boys:
Right then – back to it.
Cats hate traveling, and Sophie mee-ed unhappily all the way to Chicago. Five weeks later, defeated and months ahead of schedule, we would drive her back to Muncie, and this time she would express her dissatisfaction in a more gag-inducing, biological way.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
We confined Maggie to the guest bedroom and gave Sophie the run of the house to acclimate herself. Within thirty minutes, she’d settled in nicely.
The only thing missing was her new big sister.
So we opened the guest room door.
Big mistake.
Already suspicious, Maggie cautiously poked her head into the kitchen, caught sight of an oblivious Sophie, and retreated under the guest room bed.
Minutes later, Sophie wandered into the guest room. After all, here was a door, previously closed, now open.
“I’m kind of nervous,” Renate said as we watched. “Do you think they’re okay?”
“They’ll be fine,” I said.
But then Sophie froze and her ears flattened. One of the cats issued a sound that made me think of a cornered, dying wolf.
“I don’t know,” Renate said, and I started to agree. Of course by then it was too late: Sophie, coiled like a spring, dove under the bed and into battle.
Decency prevents me from repeating the expletives that my wife yelled out as the cats screeched and smacked into the cardboard boxes stored under the bed. Moments later they emerged at our feet, yowling and tearing around like banshees.
“Grab them!” Renate shouted helpfully.
The cats shot up onto the bed, and Sophie, who has no front claws, climbed the wall a good six feet before gravity pulled her back. I grabbed our pissed and petrified beast, who remained motionless in my arms as Sophie high-tailed it out of the room.
Our dreams dashed, we split the apartment in half that night with a series of hastily-purchased latches. Sophie got the kitchen and the guest room; Maggie held the living and dining rooms. We soon discovered that Sophie would cry through the night if left by herself, so we shuffled litter boxes and cats around like chess pieces every night and every morning.
We lived that way for a month. Repeated attempts to ‘integrate’ the two failed miserably, and Maggie became increasingly interested in devouring our houseguest.
Eventually a family friend back in Indiana graciously agreed to take Sophie off our hands so we could have our apartment back. Fifty miles outside of Muncie Sophie pooped in her cat carrier. She spoke for all of us.