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Confessions of a Paranoid Cat Owner

By Drew Stewart

May 7, 2009 | 12:00 a.m. CST

House cats are known to be affectionate. Who couldn’t picture a fluffy white feline marshmallow hopping up on their laps as they enjoy an after-dinner cup of tea? When it comes down to it, the little fuzz balls are just warm, caring and cuddly. That is except for TC.

Tabasco Cat, named by my mother after a Kentucky Derby horse, has been the fuzzy ghost of my home for the past 13 years. You can’t pet her, you can’t play with her, and you really can’t look at TC without her running away in terror. Honestly, the only time she is to be seen is when it’s time to eat, go outside, or go to bed (TC sleeps in my parent’s room on a makeshift mattress of blankets and will even pester them to turn in when 10 p.m. rolls around).

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I often wonder whether TC harbors any love for the family, or if she’s just more like a distant roommate. It’s rare (and I mean once-a-year rare) to have an encounter with TC that lasts longer than 10 seconds. If you can actually get to the point of petting her, then you can expect it to last for about five seconds before TC realizes she doesn’t trust this human hand and darts out of the room toward her secret hideaway, wherever that may be. Personally, I like to think she’s created a system of tunnels in the walls of our house where she can travel in gleeful anonymity.

To make the situation more outrageous, TC is a clumsy cat. Many great Stewart memories have been forged out of her dramatic escapes from the family. And because she spends so much time running away, we’ve become fond of the sound of TC’s back claws tapping against our hardwood floor. Imagine a tap dancer tapping frantically into the distance, and you’ll get a good idea of what a trademark TC escape sounds like.

Another aspect of the house that TC finds troubling is doors. I’ll admit that over time she’s become surprisingly adept at opening them. If we’re walking through a hallway at home and a door is slightly cracked, it’s not uncommon to see a solitary paw reach around and slowly pull the door open with the precision of a stealthy criminal cracking a safe. It’s when TC is trying to dramatically escape through closed doors that things get dicey. Once my mother was watching TV in her room and TC, startled by something (the wind blowing, probably), darted toward the door. In her haste, she failed to notice that it was closed. I was in my room down the hall at the time when I heard the kind of dense thud that can only be attributed to a cat’s head plowing into a door. I peeked my head out into the hallway to investigate and just saw TC strutting toward the stairs and shaking her head back and forth like a boxer after a tough bout.

She might not be the ideal pet, but I do love TC. After all, once you’ve had a cat for 13 years, a general affection is assumed (whether it’s there or not). Consider it common-law cat marriage. The only thing that troubles me is whether or not TC feels any affection for me. Perhaps she’s just an emotional cripple and doesn’t realize the value a friendly purr can have. Maybe she’s just a recluse. I’ve never fully understood my cat and most likely never will. But sometimes at night, right before I head upstairs for bed, I’ll see TC standing next to the glass screen door, looking into the blackness of night and hissing. Hissing at other cats? Hissing at burglars? Hissing at the danger that enshrouds the home after nightfall? Maybe she’s hissing for the family, hissing for everything she calls dear but never dares to show. But as soon as I can finish the thought, TC’s eyes dart over her shoulder to mine. She ignites in terror. She runs away.

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