Cat on a rope

I've been housesitting for one of my professors, and she has a cat who is also human. I have serious doubts about such a thing because in my world cats live outside and are frequently wiped out by random diseases. Sometimes they are less mangy than normal and will let you pet them. Beyond this, however, cats do not cross the animal/human line.

Seamus (named after the famous Irish poet Seamus Heaney) is a black cat, likes long walks in the backyard on a leash, and is constantly looking for someone to pet him. He has something wrong with him so he has to be "pilled" every morning or he will die. Usually this is a painless process but he also throws up a lot and sometimes that includes his little white pill. When that happens, I have to fish it out and re-administer. I was also instructed to sit beside him and pet him if it seems he isn't eating. He also (according to his 'mom'), won't eat his food if it's stale. To these instructions I replied in my head, "If a cat gets hungry enough, it'll eat anything!" I don't think I'm what those in the business call "a cat person."

The other night I was settled in bed and watching the news when Seamus leaped up on the bed. Not an unusual occurance as he sleeps on the bed every night, I casually glanced at him and did a breakneck-speed-doubletake. Hanging out of one side of his mouth was a little gray tail and out the other a little gray head. My first thought was to kick him off the bed and cough out all the Hantavirus spores that had certainly entered my lungs, but then I remembered hearing something one time about cats bringing their kills to their caretakers as a sign of affection and acceptance.

*Gulp* Paste on fake smile. Gingerly reach out and pet head: "Good job, Seamus," I exclaimed in a falsely pitched voice reserved for a small child who has just picked the last flower of summer. "I'm so proud of you!"

Seamus delicately stepped up and lowered his head to lay his offering on my lap.

And then it ran away.

It was at that moment that Seamus became a human. "Seamus!" I yelled. "Get it!"

Seamus launched off the bed and went into stealth mode and paced back and forth, waiting for the cheeky little monkey to show his whiskers. I leaned over the edge of the bed and said, "Where did he go? You better find him, Seamus." It is at this point that the insanity nearly reached its apex because I swear to you that Seamus responded to me with a look that clearly communicated his thoughts: "Back off, lady! Let me do my job here!"

I sat back up in the bed and muted CNN so I could hear if the little guy was scurrying around. A mouse in my sleeping area - this was not a comforting thought. Perhaps I thought I could help out the predator with claws and heightened senses to capture the animal he had already succeeded in catching. Seamus jumped up on the bed and looked at me and started to nose around the covers. I pulled up the comforter and glanced down at the little head poking out of the folds right next to me. "SEAMUS!" I screamed (again). "He's right here! Right here! Get him!!!!" I also pointed and gestured wildly as though the feline would understand universal human hand signals of distress - the insanity was complete.

The mouse, in a last desperate attempt, divebombed off the edge of the bed. Seamus was off like a shot and, in a split second, all was eerily quiet in the bedroom.

"Seamus?" I called out forlornly from the middle of the bed. No response. "Did you get it?" I asked but heard only the echo of my voice in return. CNN had lost all of its appeal so when my heart rate finally resumed its normal pace, I eventually fell asleep, but not before a healthy, self-induced coughing fit.

The next morning, when I descended the stairs and blearily looked around, I discovered the carcass at my feet. Apparently, since I had let the hairy thing get away, I was not deigned worthy of a second offering.

And in a final stroke of retribution, Seamus puked four times.