CAT TALES – Psychiatric help for the pets…or for me?

My cats probably need psychiatric help, but I pity the poor psychiatrist who gets them as patients; they would never cooperate with therapy.

Sure, they have been known to lie on a couch, but for them to do it on command is utterly impossible.

In fact, getting them to do anything on command is impossible.

They have always been independent animals, but relatively easy to handle.

That has all changed since the new additions to our family - a man and his dog.

The man is of the older variety and has a little trouble with his memory; he once knew an orange cat named Goldie.

When he sees Momau, my orange cat, he calls her ‘Goldie’.

Momau ignored this insult at first, but as she found the man was prone to petting her and giving her treats, she decided to respond to whatever the man called her.

Hearing Momau called ‘Goldie’ every day began sinking into my subconscious and I was soon calling her ‘Goldie’ half the time myself (I began worrying that I needed a psychiatrist too).

Beebe, my elegant tuxedo cat, was not given an alias.

He was simply referred to as ‘that big fat black one’...talk about damaging a feline’s psyche.

If Beebe wasn’t so huge, he could have hidden himself away until his embarrassment subsided, but it was impossible for a cat with his girth to remain out of sight.

Thus, we had two cats struggling with their identities-one with two different identities to reconcile and the other with a bad body image to contend with.

Both parties were ripe for an intervention, and I wasn’t too sure about myself.

Add to these problems the little dog.

He was tiny - way smaller than Beebe and a wee bit bigger than Momau, yet he terrorized them both.

They had small catnip-filled toys that they loved - he cared nothing for catnip and had loads of toys of his own.

Nevertheless, he would grab their toys in his mouth and spend hours looking for places to hide them away from the cats.

He was also extremely jealous.

If the cats got too close to me, he would snap at them.

Beebe would have none of that and give him swats, but the dog enjoyed that game.

Momau, who had been feral, kept out of his way, but in retaliation she began biting the man’s hand when he petted her.

I can only guess that this was some kind of anger transference, but I was ill-equipped to handle my new dysfunctional family.

I began an active search for an analyst, a behavior modifier, or any kind of animal-person who could guide me through this crisis.

As I sifted through ads, advice from everyone from friends to critics, and the little help I could find on the computer or from Alexa, I became more and more confused.

Everyone had a suggestion, but no one had a solution.

I began buying more and more catnip toys.

I began calling Momau by her name - Momau - and telling her she was not Goldie.

I began telling Beebe he was muscular, not fat; I told him he was a very handsome cat.

I told myself that things were getting better but they weren’t.

The toys were still disappearing at an alarming rate and were found under sofa pillows, the mattress in the dog’s bed, and spilling out of my pocketbook.

The cats were skulking, sulking, and slinking around, and I was in a near catatonic state.

I lay down on the couch, shoveling out the lumpy toys and turned on the TV.

I happened upon an animal channel.

Kitties and puppies were playing happily together.

Old dogs were sprawled on the hearth snoozing away in front of a blazing fire.

Peeps and ducklings were swimming together.

My animals stopped fussing, growling and hissing.

They gathered around the TV, watching as if transfixed.

The little dog dropped a few toys in front of the cats.

The cats responded by dropping a few ham scraps from the table to the dog.

Peace and tranquility reigned.

Of course, it didn’t last.

After a while, they were chasing each other again.

The cats had picked up a new trick - they lay in passageways the dog wanted to cross, blocking his way, and when he tried to go by, they swatted him.

The dog had picked up a new trick: jumping on their tails.

I had also picked up a new trick: the magic of television was now in my control when I needed some relief.

I’m just going to let these animals be animals.

We don’t need an animal psychiatrist.

More later, Judy and the cats

P.S.: As I ponder the possibility that I still need counseling, I can just hear those cats saying: “I pity the poor psychiatrist that gets her for a client.”

CAT TALES – Psychiatric help for the pets…or for me?

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ASK JUDGE SMITH – Violating Local Ordinances Has Consequences

THE DIRT ROAD WONDER – The Preacher and the Big Summer Diamond

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