My cat lost her 10,000th collar recently. I wasn't surprised; it was inevitable. At my insistence, she has a collar that, by some basic mechanical principles beyond my comprehension, detaches itself from her neck when it becomes snared. Such a scenario, apparently, happens often - or at least 10,000 times. We haven't replaced the collar yet out of laziness, though I should soon. One co-worker advises me not to bother. "She's microchipped, James. If she gets lost, they'll get her back to you." But, I'd rather not rely on her microchip for three reasons. First, I don't trust Seattlites to check my cat's microchip. Zach and I have heard too many cases of Seattlites taking in a "stray" (colarless) cat that, it turns out (usually months or years later), is indeed microchipped and already has a family! Second, the Seattle Animal Shelter still has my cat's old name (from her neglectful prior owners) registered - Lolita. Since my cat isn't a prostitute, I don't want them to use this name. Finally, Zach and I fear that my 70-year-old neighbor wants to capture and eat my cat; I'd like to think that the collar that's (usually) around her neck somehow dampens his appetite.
Thus, my cat has been prancing around the neighborhood nude the past week, and I've been watching my 70-year-old neighbor carefully to make sure he doesn't eat her. Since she's spent most of her time with us collared, I've also discovered a new physical characteristic I'd previously ignored: her scruff... the extra skin at the back of her neck, usually covered by the collar she so loathes. Prancing around nude, however, I caught her late last week in a spontaneous embrace and discovered, much to my surprise, that she loves having her scruff scratched. Being both the world's worst biologist and world's worst cat owner, however, I needed a book about cats to tell me that she enjoyed it.
Zach: "How do you know she enjoys it?"
Me: "Because she shuts her eyes and blinks a lot, and purrs."
Zach: "But you said she also purrs when she's sick or having an asthma attack. So, a cat purring doesn't always mean it's a good thing."
Me: "Yeah, but this is a different kind of purring. I think she's... happy."
Our cat isn't generally your typical, affectionate "lap cat." Hence why, after having her in our home for nearly two years, we still can't tell when she's happy. But, in addition to my amazing capacity to waste time and energy, I also have an uncanny ability to look up information about topics that are foreign to me, and also have little practical value. For example, I'll likely never look up the straightforward mechanism that allows my cat's collar to detach itself from her body when it's snagged. But, I'll spend hours reading books on cat behavior. That's how I learned that blinking and closed eyes, coupled with purring, are a sign of satisfaction and trust from a cat.
Me: "The books also say that cats can recognize our eyes. And if we blink at them, they'll blink back as a sign of affection and trust."
Zach: "Huh."
Me: "Yeah, I'm going to blink at her now until she blinks back."
Zach: "Uh, good luck with that."
I think she doesn't blink back because I usually wear glasses. Still, I spent most of the last week blinking at my nude cat in the hopes that she'd return my affection. Zach says we need to give up, let her be the asocial cat she is, and get a beagle. I needed to persist, though, just for the reassurance that my cat, like me, could be saved. We're both creatures that spend much of our time alone - not so much by choice, but by design. We both have difficulties relating to people, and interacting comfortably with them. The discovery my cat's scruff, and it's soothing effects on her psyche, however, opened the door to a wonderful possibility: if I could gain her trust and affection - get her to blink at me, then surely that would also be a sign that there's hope for me. If a cat can be salvaged, then so can a human.
By Sunday morning, my blinks had not been returned. Zach rose early and watched his "shows" (the Sunday morning round of political talk shows). I was preparing a presentation for Tuesday afternoon, and decided to drag my laptop and some data files to a neighborhood coffee shop with free WiFi. Being early Easter morning, the shop wasn't too crowded. Most of the patrons were, like me, absorbed with school or work, sipping espresso beverages with the stern sincerity and drive of dedicated professionals. As I settled at my table, I took a glance around the room and smiled, and was surprised to see someone smiling back at me. His tight-fitting pink t-shirt and stack of college texts oozed three simple words: "gay college student." Our eyes met and lingered until I, embarrassed, blushed and sat down. I opened my laptop and typed a hasty message to Zach:
"I think I just accidentally flirted with a guy in a pink t-shirt."
Flirtation, like science, has never been my strong point. Most of the men I've dated weren't seduced by my smooth style or penetrating glance; they were largely masochists who somehow found my awkward habits "charming," at least for awhile. Thus, I was horrified that I'd inadvertently initiated a flirtatious exchange with a man sitting quite near me. I was even more horrified when, after typing my message to Zach, I noticed him glancing at me again, and smiling. I looked up and tried to smile back, though I believe it looked like I was sneezing.
Zach had sensed the panic behind my single sentence message, and was amused. He knows me, and my social disabilities, better than most, and viewed this accidental exchange as an opportunity to, at least, practice my social interactions and, at best, perhaps make a friend. Thus, his reply gently prodded me to continue.
Unfortunately, I didn't know how to proceed. I usually assume that there's a strict code of conduct in such cases, a code and script that the rest of you (well-adjusted) humans know and operate by. And I, impotent and left in the dark, don't know how to proceed. Thus, I spent the next few hours polishing my talk, and having an entirely awkward flirtatious exchange of smiles and glances with the student in the pink t-shirt. Zach rang me around noon to come home for lunch, and I told him of my inability to return flirtatious signals sent to me. He was amused, and likely expected such a result. It is hard, after all, to break me of my habits.
"Maybe I'll try winking at him casually as I leave," I hastily whispered into the phone as I packed my bag.
I hung up the phone, picked up my bag, and walked towards him, and the exit. He raised his head, our eyes met, he smiled --
and I blinked.
Like my cat, he did not blink back.
Posted by James at April 9, 2007 12:20 PM