The Joys of Owning a Pussy


There you are. You've been to dinner, maybe a movie, whatever, and you've finally managed to spirit the current object of your lust home and into bed. Things are going wonderfully, you're both doing everything right, and you're heading for seventh heaven. Suddenly there's a rattling sound. Your beau's head pops up in alarm. "Huh?" he whispers urgently, "Wassat?" You smile sweetly. "What's what?" On cue - rattle, rattle. You grit your teeth. "OH, that...Ignore it"

"Oh..Okay.." he replies, in that slightly doubtful, "It's your house" sort of voice. You apply some interesting technique to bring his attention back to the matter at hand and the distraction is forgotten. For a moment.

Rattle. Rattle-rattle-BANG!

He sits upright now, having identified the bedroom door as the source of the offending noise. "What," he enquires with a degree of nervousness, "is THAT?" At this point the question often answers itself. For right about now the spoilt brat outside the door hammers on it once again and complains aloud for Mother; "MEOW!"

There has been a lot written over the last decade about the difficulties of integrating children with the new love interest in a parent's life. Women's magazines, advice columns and those silly "human interest" bits that major newspapers use to pad the weekend edition, all offer helpful advice on how to acclimatise the little darlings to Mummy's (or Daddy's) latest bonk. Well, yes, children and boyfriends can be and often ARE difficult to mix, but believe me, Brethren and Sistren, you've seen NOTHING until you've brought someone home to a household that is shared with, or perhaps ruled by, a cat.

At the time of writing I am a single woman with two cats whom I adore. We've been together for years. The only problem I've encountered with Bandit and Buster occurs on the occasions when I bring home a male companion. By sheer good fortune the men I've chosen for this honor have been fond of, or at least amenable to, cats. For this I am thankful because it has made my attempts to intergrate men and moggies something less than a total disaster.

Take, for example, the incident outlined above. This is the result of closing the cats out of the bedroom. Scratching on the door, knocking and the desolate "Mew! Mew! Mew!" goes a long way to distracting and dampening ardour, if only by making you feel incredibly guilty.

Shutting the poor creatures completely out of the house is in many ways a worse option - not only might it be freezing out there, but they then have direct access to the bedroom window where a sudden unexpected knock is even more likely to teach your man to levitate in terror.

You might secure the cats in another room of the house, but this only works if you live alone. Housemates inevitably let the poor trapped beasts out - and then they're back at the bedroom door, usually when you're trying to sleep!

It seems, then, that there is nothing for it but to allow the cats access to the bedroom. Uh-uh. NOT good. Such a direct mix of man and moggy opens the way to a whole new range of mishap. When I was much younger I was involved with a man called Robert and a Burmese called Chico. On one occasion the heat of the moment led Rob and I to leave the bedroom door ajar. In the midst of an enthusiastic missionary position (forgive me, but I happen to LIKE missionary!) Robert jerked and cried out. "What?" I thought, "Already?"

He jerked again. "Squeak!....Yike!" And began to gesture awkwardly over his shoulder. I squirmed around until I could see past his ear. My beloved Chico was contentedly settling in the small of Robert's back. Isn't it cute the way cats knead their sleeping place with their claws before lying down?

Then there's Nathan. Nate's a sweety and my Tonkinese, Buster, adores him. What's the problem then, you ask? The problem is that Buster is what I call a "kissy-cat". He demonstrates affection by licking. Copiously. And there's nothing like being woken in the early hours by distressed cries as Nathan dives beneath the covers to escape being slobbered on!

And I'll leave it to your imagination what might happen if SOMEone (Hello, Warren) is silly enough to let one of the cats crawl under the blankets when one has no clothing and an early morning hard-on.

Perhaps life would be easier without the cats. Without waiting for the pathetic mewing or rattling doors. Without wondering if this fellow's going to turn out to be allergic. Without hearing the dreadful sound of someone going for six over the edge of an unexpected litter tray. Without the purrs and affection, the joyous greetings at the door, the unswerving love and gentle companionship when the rest of the world falls apart....

Who am I kidding?

We'll just have to go to HIS place!