Wary of whiskers

Felines and I are not exactly the best of chums.
Dogs I understand. We are on the same wavelength. Give me any creature with half a brain cell and I’ll make friends with it. It knows I’ve got a half-cell lead, so there’s no competition.
Cats are smarter, and they know it. Long ago in the dusty sands of Egypt, they were treated as gods, or so the story goes.
I don’t think they’ve quite lived down seeing Fido take their pedestal. And they all want to take their frustrations out on me.
So when my neighbor asked me in a nice, cordial way if I could possibly take care of her sweet darling kitty while she went to her daughter’s graduation, I politely responded, “WHAUGH?”
“Great!” she said, and toddled off while I was still figuring out how to pronounce consonants.
Thus I found myself saddled with Secretaricat. No, really. That’s the cat’s name. It’s because he runs like a horse, the neighbor explained while she shot out of her driveway at 547 miles an hour.
“And don’t forget the Meow Mix!” she hollered from beyond the horizon.
I wouldn’t. I also wouldn’t forget the five-inch long claws I was certain Secretaricat possessed.
Some people, no doubt, find it a thrilling prospect to risk their limbs to the clutches of the Felis catus.
But I’m rather attached to my arms. The idea of sticking them toward the equivalent of a living thornbush made me start dribbling consonants again.
Once the echoes of my neighbor’s friendly reminders faded, I approached her door and immediately heard something on the other side crash into it.
It wasn’t one of those soft, harmless thunks, like a chihuahua makes when it bounces off a grand piano. It was a racehorse-level collision. The door rattled on its hinges.
The animal was hungry. My hands shook as I fit the key in the lock. Low, leonine sounds hung in the air.

I steeled myself, then shoved open the door at the same moment that Secretaricat launched himself at it.
Wham! There was a drawn-out yowl as an orange blur traced an arc into the back of the living room.
I had a moment to breathe. Seizing a scoop of cat chow, I flung it at the food bowl and missed. It didn’t matter. The bowl was already full. I wondered why I had to come in today at all.
But I didn’t wonder long, because Secretaricat was charging toward me. I grabbed a weapon off the countertop and held it aloft. “Down, demon!” I cried.
A rolling, roaring sound rose from the cat. I screwed my eyes shut and prepared for the worst.
But the sound continued. I cracked open an eye. Secretaricat was on the floor. His belly faced the ceiling. His eyebrows were up as if to say, “Why so slow?”
My eyes flicked from him to the object I was holding. Cat. Brush. And back again.
Slowly, I brought the brush down and ran it through his fur. There was another explosive growl and I nearly broke through the window. No, the pitch was off. It wasn’t a growl. He was purring.
This cat loved his brush. The minute I lifted the thing, he would keel over, waiting. It was like a narcotic.
I wouldn’t say I ever fully relaxed near him. But for the few days my neighbor was away, the brush made things work between us.
Though if you have to take care of a cat, let me offer one piece of advice. Stun it with a door first.

Copyright 2025 Alexandra Paskhaver, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.