Brewsky will sometimes stare right into my eyes for minutes on end. I’ll stare back for awhile, grateful for the attention, wondering what he’s thinking, and admiring his beauty, but will turn away in disgust when I realize that I’m continuing to stare beyond the point of enjoying it because I think he should be the one to look away first. My attempt to out-macho a neutered housecat who doesn’t know he’s being out-machoed makes me think I might be neurotic, and I blame him for making me think I’m neurotic when he knows I’m not.
When I scold Brewsky, he bites Peggy if she’s home. If she’s not home, he waits for her to come home, and then he bites her. He doesn’t dare bite me so, the dog being dead, he turns to the only target left, the one that can’t chastise him without worrying about hurting his feelings.
Since Bonnie died (a week ago, almost to the minute), Brewsky has wanted a lot of attention. I don’t know why since he wasn’t close to Bonnie, who disliked all four-legged creatures, and whose blindness made her fearful of Brewsky because she was forever stumbling into him as he lay stretched-out in the middle of the floor, making it necessary for him to slap her face. Maybe he thinks we murdered her, and he’s turning into a suck-up so we won’t murder him.
I don’t know why he likes to watch me dance, but he’s really into it, and I always wonder, “What are you thinking that you watch me so studiously?” Maybe he’s wondering, “What are you thinking that you dance so peculiarly?”
Sometimes at night for no apparent reason, he starts yowling and racing through the house at full speed, sometimes running over the tops of the furniture. When he does that, I say, “If I had lived during the Bubonic Plague, I too might have thrown your kind on a bonfire because your behavior is mighty suspicious.”
Most of the time, he sits around looking like the deity of dignity, but as soon as he gets hungry, or imagines that a treat might be forthcoming, or thinks it’s high time for a meal; he becomes a beggar. I ask, “Where’s your pride, man?” but he just begs louder.
I thought cats were supposed to be dainty eaters, but Brewsky eats like a German Shepherd who’s afraid that someone might take his food away (not that he would fight for it if they did). It’s disgusting. He gets three squares a day, frequent treats, and a midnight snack, yet he wants more.
If I hide a treat, and he doesn’t know where it is, he will go right to it if I point. Maybe some dogs can learn to do that, but I haven’t had any luck teaching them. When this usually poker-faced creature who sleeps all day does something smart, I find myself wondering how smart he really is. I mean, what does he know that I don’t? Contemplating this gives me the willies, and I blame him for it.
Brewsky doesn’t just come when he’s called; he runs so hard that it sounds like a stampede. He can be asleep at the other end of the house, but as soon as I call him, he starts running. Give a cat some cheese or canned meat every time you say his name, and that’s what you get.
I thought cats were delicate creatures who hated a firm touch, but I’ve never massaged a dog more firmly than I massage this cat, and he loves it. The only trouble is that he only loves it when he’s on the floor, it being distasteful to him to be rubbed in any location that’s convenient for me.
Brewsky is my first 21st century pet (circa 2010), and this makes him seem newfangled on one level, yet he still looks and acts like cats that I knew in the 1950s, and this makes me wonder if the pound let him go for half price because he’s a beta version. Maybe the newer versions come with a remote.