The Copper Eyes of a Black Cat. Photo by Tasos Mansour on Unsplash

My Girlfriend’s Black Cat

And the amateur cat whisperer

I had just started dating Joan when I met her black cat on a cold day in February. Once I sat on the couch, the cat immediately disliked me. She hissed, turned her backside, lifted her tail, and revealed the most unsightly hole.

“Her name is Tasha,” Joan said, making tea in the kitchen. She’s very protective.”

“Hello, Tasha,” I said softly.

Tasha eyeballed me with her menacing copper eyes and puffy furry cheeks as if to say, “You can say hello to me all you want; I’m not warming up to you.”

“I’m Joan’s new boyfriend,” I said. “Even though I prefer dogs to cats, I would still like to be your friend.”

Tasha hissed and raised his tail higher.

Hm. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned dogs, but I wanted to be transparent. Honesty is the best policy with animals.

“You can trust me. I’m not the kind of human who would pull your tail, rub your fur the wrong way, or threaten to put you in a stew — so you can feel safe with me. And I will certainly be kind to your female companion.”

My words did not reassure Tasha one bit. Instead, she gave me an evil eye and crouched in attack mode like a juicy mouse.

“How are you two doing in there?” asked Joan from the kitchen. “Tasha usually takes some time to warm up to strangers.”

“We’re doing fine,” I lied, pretending to be a cat whisperer.

She laughed, knowing that wasn’t true.

“Do you have a feather or a fake mouse for her to play with?”

“Tasha doesn’t like toys. She won’t even use the scratchpad. Instead, she prefers to jump on things and sharpen her claws on the furniture. But mainly, she likes protecting me from the men I date.”

I looked at the shredded material on the sofa. Tasha looked at me as if to say, “So, what? It’s my house, and I can do whatever. So if I feel like ripping the sofa to shreds — nobody’s going to stop me.”

I smiled and reached into my backpack. “I got something I’m sure you’ll like.”

Her evil eye followed my hand. Her tail formed a question mark. I pulled out a can of tuna-flavored snacks and rattled the can. “Do you want some of these tasty fishy morsels?”

She sniffed the aroma of tuna while not taking her eyes off me.

I put two tiny snacks on the floor. Tasha looked at them suspiciously, like it was a ruse to get me to like her: I’m hungry, but there’s no way I’m taking food from Satan. I’d rather be chased by a Great Dane.

Then Tasha eyeballed the can of tuna treats, and with her twenty-five pounds of furry plumpness, she leaped at me with claws extended, flying through the air like a bat out of hell.

Startled, I dropped the can of tuna treats to the floor. Tasha scratched me several times, grabbed the can firmly in her mouth, scooped up the two goodies on the floor with her paws, and scurried into the backroom.

“Joan!” I cried. “What the heck’s wrong with your cat?”

When Joan saw me bleeding from the neck, she quickly got the first aid kit and tended to my wounds.

“There’s nothing wrong with Tasha,” she said. “This is her territory; she sees you as an intruder.”

“She’s not a cat,” I replied. “She’s a Samurai. Look at the scratches on my neck — she’s out for blood.”

Joan wasn’t pleased with my attitude toward Tasha or my telling her I preferred dogs to cats. She served the tea and handed me a scone on a plate. She was distant for the remainder of the evening. When I moved closer to her on the sofa, Tasha came running from the other room and sat between us. It was strange that Joan didn’t see anything wrong with Tasha’s possessive behavior but thought I was the problem.

“You need patience with Tasha. She’s very temperamental.”

“You call that temperamental? Scratching the shit out of me?”

I was unprepared to date a cat-crazy woman whose entire life was centered around an insane feline. It seemed like the cat would never warm up to me, and I would always be scared of having my throat slit with one wrong move. Although Joan was beautiful and nice, she wasn’t worth the aggravation.

“I need to be honest, Joan. Your cat is a psychopath; her claws are like daggers, sharp katanas. Either you get the cat declawed, or I’ll have to stop dating you.”

“Harry, I’m afraid that Tasha is right about you. You aren’t a good match for me.”

And as I left, I turned back and saw Tasha flipping me the bird while chewing on a tuna treat.

© 2022 Mark Tulin

Here’s another humorous story by Mark Tulin:

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