Haley is the world’s sweetest feline, but she hates having her belly rubbed. This is unfortunate because she is a hefty gal, and furry, and since she sleeps on her back on the dining room table that big furry belly is too tempting a target for many people to ignore. We try to warn people but if anyone is foolish enough to rub Haley’s belly her ears go straight back and she lets out a hiss that any rational person would take seriously. And as for that irrational person? Well, they were warned.
Despite Haley’s unique quirk, she is an affectionate cat, and personable, and since my partner and I know better than to rub her belly, life in our house typically passes with a minimum of drama. But when I brought home an orphaned kitten, it seemed that drama followed him.
Parker was only three weeks old when I found him, abandoned in a parking lot. No bigger than a small hamster, we bottle fed him every three hours for almost two weeks, never quite sure he was going to survive because he was so little and so weak. Because we were so concerned that the little guy was not going to make it, perhaps we coddled him more than perhaps we should have.
But now Parker is 8-weeks old, strong, healthy and handsome, and at a whopping 2 pounds he is terrorizing the house. He chases the dog and bites her tail and he uses his itty bitty kitty teeth and his razor-sharp claws way more than a properly reared kitty would. My partner, a veterinarian¸ said it’s because Parker was raised without a mother so he has never learned appropriate cat behavior.
With each day Parker became more uncontrollable and our saying “No!” in a firm voice made no difference in his behavior. “Poor motherless kitty,” I told my partner stoutly as I bandaged my hand. “I’m sure he’ll outgrow this phase.”
“Of course he will,” said my partner as he doused his ankle liberally with peroxide, but his voice lacked conviction.
We were not able to introduce Parker to Haley for several weeks until he tested negative for feline AIDS and feline leukemia, but when he got a clean bill of health we cautiously put him on the dining table where Haley was sleeping, as always, on her back. It was obvious that Parker regarded Haley as his long-lost mother and, with a little “meow” of delight, he ran towards her exposed belly and attempted to nurse.
Haley was startled; she stood up and, ears flat, gave Parker a world-class hiss. Unfazed, he tried to nurse again. One look at Haley’s dangerously narrowed eyes and It was clear that her sole maternal impulse was to slap Parker’s head right off his shoulders but, showing rare restraint, perhaps because of his size, she didn’t. She hissed again, louder this time.
It was on Parker’s third attempt that Haley had had enough and she slapped him across the face so hard that she knocked him off his feet. Uncertain, he tried again and Haley batted him again, harder. This went on for several minutes and I was about to intervene but my partner told me not to worry. “This is what mother cats do,” he said. “Parker needs this.”
After about 10 minutes Parker got the hint and skulked away, tail low. Over the course of the day he made several more half-hearted attempts to nurse; each time Haley hissed and slapped him away.
That evening Parker was strangely subdued. Under Haley’s unforgiving gaze Parker stopped biting the dog and allowed me to scratch his ears while he lay on my chest as I was watching TV. But then, out of the blue, he bit my chin – hard. Without really thinking of it I bared my teeth and I hissed at him – loud — just like Haley had done. He stopped dead in his tracks, looked at me, wide-eyed, and bolted. But a minute later he came back and curled up in a ball on my chest.
Across the room Haley yawned, rolled over and began to purr.