The Cat Conspiracy

I don't know why I spend so much time trying to convince myself and others that I really, really am not the target of some vast conspiracy, even though my entire life provides ample evidence to the contrary. I honestly have never thought that people are conspiring against me. I don't even think bureaucracies, against which I continually rage, are out to get me specifically--they are out to get everyone. And while I have never been a conspiracy theorist, every time I am forced to deal with an inanimate object with moving parts or which require the use of electricity to operate, thoughts of conspiracy nonetheless arise.

Ah, but when it comes to cats.... I have heard far too many convincing tales of cat lovers being driven to distraction by the Machiavellian behavior of their feline pets (though I've not heard one single similar story about dogs).

The very fact that cats go out of their way to convince us that they are stupid, or at best selectively stupid, is proof that they are not. They play the game very convincingly, but we accept the charade at our risk. If you think for one second that their ability, upon being chastised for some incident of utter havoc, to stare at us with wide, innocent eyes and an expression that clearly says "What? What did I do? Why are you mad at me?" is anything less than calculated, I suggest you think again.

One day a week or so ago, I came into the kitchen to find the roll of paper towels I keep on a spindle on the counter completely shredded, with bits and pieces and torn individual sheets scattered about the room. From his look of saintly innocence, my cat Spirit obviously was denying his guilt. He was very careful, on the less than 1/4 of roll he left on the spindle, to have chewed chunks out of at least two spots and the top, thus guaranteeing that not one single sheet was salvageable.

On my next trip to the store, I bought a pack of three rolls of paper towels. I put one on the spindle, built a wall around it (coffeemaker on one side, kitchen wall behind it, a cutting board on the third side, and a stack of pots and pans ordinarily never taken out of the cabinet as a jury-rigged final side). I then put the two remaining rolls in the back of a lower cabinet having nowhere else to put them.

Have I mentioned that Spirit has learned how to open the doors to my kitchen cabinets? The next morning, all was well, though I hate looking at all those pots and pans protecting the paper towels. Then, in the afternoon I went to get something out of the cabinet where I'd put the remaining rolls. It was like the aftermath of a ticker-tape parade: huge piles of chunks and bits of paper towel. Pieces, tatters, and shreds everywhere inside the cabinet. Spirit had opened the door, undoubtedly while I was asleep, had his way with the paper towels, and left. That he had been careful to close the door behind him eliminated any doubt I may have had that this was not a deliberate act.

Years ago, while living in Los Angeles, I was given a beautiful model of a full-rigged sailing ship, which I treasure, and have always displayed prominently wherever I've lived. Since I moved into my new apartment, it's been sitting atop the hutch in an alcove just off the kitchen. Yesterday, when I got up, I found the ship lying on the floor some three feet from the hutch, its foresail broken, its base twisted. Spirit had somehow leapt from the top of the refrigerator to the top of the hutch and batted the ship three feet across the room.

When I set it upright, the entire ship lists heavily to port, its broken sail dangling limply off the hull. I was equal parts furious and saddened, but my alter ego Dorien, remaining calm, suggested that I replace it atop the hutch and tell anyone who sees it that it is the model of a shipwreck.

And this was not part of Spirit's conspiracy to drive me to distraction, you say? Either you do not own a cat, or yours is just biding its time, waiting....

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