I wish I had a tail. I’ve said that for as long I’ve owned my cat - or, I should say, she’s owned me.

Let me state for the record that I am not a cat person. I don’t like cats. I like cat. Singular. One cat. Mine. I think it’s because we’re so alike, Penny and I. We have this dynamic relationship, whereby she clings to me with reckless, affectionate abandon one moment and claws me with the same enthusiasm the next. I, too, have been known to bite the hand that feeds me, physically and spiritually.

The only clue to Penny’s mood swings is the flick of her tail. I give no clues.

When we first got Penny, she wasn’t interested in any human contact. Most cats like to have their ears rubbed or something, but this cat wanted no part of being touched at all. So I began forcibly picking Penny up and holding her firmly but gently in my lap, petting her and cooing softly until she settled down. When she was calm for a few minutes, I’d lower her to the floor and let her go. Psychiatrists use the same technique to help patients overcome phobias by gradually introducing them to the object of their fear, like curing someone of a fear of heights by making them jump out of a plane.

At first, when I put Penny down, she’d reach back and latch her claws into my skin, bolt like lightening, then hide in a corner and hiss. But before long she started just running away, then slowly walking away, and finally staying put and rubbing on my legs. Soon, she was jumping up on me, rubbing her face on mine and begging for attention, chirping in that non-cat way she has of communicating without meowing.

And now, she is all over me. When I read a book. When I watch TV. When I’m at the computer. When I am asleep. All I have to do is make eye contact and she’s on me like static cling. I’ve created a monster.

The one thing that’s remained constant is that when Penny is finished being loved, she gives me a swipe of her claw and hauls tail. She can initiate the contact, but she is also the one to say when enough is enough.

She can sit for hours on my lap while I watch TV, and although I am occasionally allowed to pet her, if I see the tail flick even once, I am on my guard. That’s her warning to me that while this has been fun, she’s getting ready to move on, probably to my closet where she’s pulled all of the clothes off of the shelves and made herself a nest amidst my old sweatshirts.

While I am frustrated by this one-sided affection, I understand it. I’m the same way. I want to be friends when I want to be friends. When I want to be alone, I want to be alone, and if I have to hide in my closet under a pile of clothes to do it, I will.
But I have no way to broadcast my mood to others without hurting their feelings - or begging shamelessly for their attention. Penny uses her tail for the “all clear” sign (tail curled up against her side and motionless) or for the “storm watch” warning (tail raised slightly with just the white tip on the end quickly flicking back and forth). Her eyes and body language don’t change, but her tail tells the whole story.

Last week, I bought a mood ring. I thought that maybe wearing a tangible, color-coded signal would be a helpful mood barometer. Blue means “I’m cold, I’m tired, somebody make me some tea.” Purple means “Who turned the heat up again? Have you seen the gas bill this month?” and black means “Under no circumstances are you to look at or speak to me. Failure to comply may be met with excessive weeping or breaking glass.” I may have to post these codes on the refrigerator, like the Homeland Security terrorist alert scale, so that my family can read the storm warnings.

But I’d rather have a tail. It’s so much easier.


© 2007 Joanne Brokaw All rights reserved

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