Pussy-whipped

We're all pussy-whipped here. That is, whipped by our cats--and one cat in particular.

I found Dacs twelve years ago last September on the first really cold morning of fall. I was walking downtown to work and as I passed by the local bar (the building that later, somewhat ironically, would become the radio station) I noticed a box sitting on one of the benches outside it. I didn't think anything of it but just kept walking.

Then the screaming started. From inside that box came the most horrible cat noise I have ever heard. So I had to look, of course. And what I found, huddled inside a scrap of pink towel, was the tiniest kitten I had ever seen. It was filthy and sick, with both eyes swollen almost shut from chlamydia, but it could make the loudest noise. Well, what could I do but pick it up and tuck it inside my shirt and carry it along to work with me?

Fortunately I had an understanding employer, because I spent the whole morning trying to figure out something to do with this poor abandoned kitten. I called animal control and was bluntly informed that they would just put the poor thing to sleep automatically. Finally I called my husband and we took it to the vet. The vet didn't expect the kitten to make it, she told us later, but she gave us some medication and told us how to care for it.

That's how Dacs came to us. We thought at first she was a male--even the vet thought so--but after a year when nothing seemed forthcoming (if you know what I mean) we found out otherwise. Fortunately we had kept her in for the previous year so we didn't have an unexpected pregnancy to deal with. Anyway, she's been our princess and Queen of the household ever since.

That is, until THEY came. The demons.

I think it started out with their wanting to play with her. She was having none of it, but threw a hissy fit every time one got close to her. Then, as the demons got older, the initial urge to play turned into a full-scale war for dominance. It didn't start out so badly, but after Gwion Bach passed away last summer it got worse and worse, until now every time Dacs tried to have a little peace and attention there's a demon--usually Obsidian and/or Onyx--there menacing her. It's really traumatized poor Dacs. Now she spends most of her time on top of the linen closet where no one can get at her. When she wants down, she screams until M. or I comes to lift her down to her food dish, which is now kept on the kitchen ledge so it's safer for her. When she wants to go to the litter box or back onto the linen closet, she screams more.

I am torn. I feel really bad for Dacs, but I can't help but remember how, as a kitten, she used to beat up Tamlane (R.I.P.), who was twice her size. And I wonder why she doesn't fight back. And I wonder if I am slowly going mad from all the cat fights in my house.

Still, M. and I find ourselves pussy-whipped. She's our princess and we can't help but come when she calls, even if it means standing there without any idea of what she really wants. We wants her to know she's safe and we still love her, but does this really help? It doesn't seem to. We can't be there 24 hours a day to protect her. I wonder if this is how parents of human children feel when their kids get bullied at school--so helpless. So unable to come up with any answers.

And now the cats are demanding my attention so I have to go...