When my son was 13 years old we decided to get a kitten. We talked my husband into it by telling him we’d get rid of the two hamsters that he hated. He often laments that he should not have made that deal. Why? Because the kitten we fell in love with grew up to be the world’s meanest cat. But I love him.
When Caleb and I went to the Humane Society to adopt the kitten with the big gold eyes that we’d seen on the internet, we should have suspected something when we said, “We’d like to adopt Ink” and the woman literally ran to get him. (The Humane Society had named him Ink and I thought that was confirmation that he was the right cat for me.) She came back from the kitten room with this little tuxedo kitten who was flailing his arms and legs in all directions, trying to scratch her, and she said, “This is a wild one.” My thought at the time was “you’d be wild too if you were locked in a room with 100 other kittens and lots of dogs barking in the background.” So I wasn’t worried.
The description on the website explained that Ink had been found in a dumpster and I was incensed at the person who had thrown a tiny kitten into a dumpster. But after we’d been Ink’s parents for about a week, my husband said, “You know, feral cats have their kittens in dumpsters.” And suddenly I understood Ink’s behavior. As soon as Ink was no longer a kitten that we could pick up, he “informed” us that he did not want to be touched by human hands. He scratched anyone who tried to pet him and he had no love for anything other than his food bowl. I spent four solid years sucking up to Ink every day. I told him how handsome he was and how much we loved him. I knitted blankets for him to sleep on. I did everything I could think of to ingratiate myself. Meanwhile, Caleb could pick him up and throw him about like a gunny sack and he didn’t protest at all. When Ink had to go to the vet it was Caleb who could put him in the carrier and Caleb would have to go to the vet visit because he was the only one who could keep Ink from clawing the doctor’s eyes out. And then Caleb went off to college and I became the Ink wrangler. We finally worked things out so that I could scratch the top of his head. For about twenty seconds, and then out came the claws.
This caused constant problems when people would come to visit. Every “Aww, look at the kitty” was met by, “Don’t touch him!” Few people obeyed. Most said things like, “Oh, I’m good with cats” and tried anyway. We had Neosporin stashed in every room for the people who wouldn’t listen. One day it was a huge biker-dude who was collecting for the Salvation Army. He did the “I’m good with cats” thing and next thing you know, he was headed back to his truck with blood running down his arm.
After nine years of constant sucking up and limiting the petting to 20 seconds of head scratching, imagine my surprise when suddenly Ink crawled into my lap. And purred! And that was the beginning of Ink the Lap Cat. He started yelling at me to sit down so he could get into my lap. He’s 11 now and that is our daily routine. He’s lucky that my job is sedentary because he has to have at least two hours of lap time per day.
He is much more patient with people touching him in his elderly years, but not strangers. They’re still getting the Neosporin. I’ve had cats all my life and I have been wildly in love with many of them, but for some mysterious reason, Ink is my favorite. Maybe it’s because I had to work so hard for his affection. In your envelopes every month you will be getting a letter from Ink. I just thought I should warn you.