It's Always the Mother

When Moe Moe found the six scratching posts in my living room wanting and therefore designated my six new beautifully upholstered dining room chairs as the perfect scratching posts, I barely flinched. Yes, I had spent a bundle on the chairs, and 1 year later they they look like the "befores" from a reupholstery workshop. But he's a cat with claws and excellent taste. I should have known he'd to prefer $250 chairs from Crate and Barrel to $10 scratching posts from Petco. And when, having guessed that human food was probably an improvement over Friskies and Iams, he stole the chicken off my plate and stuck his paw in my oatmeal, tasted it and stuck it in again for seconds, I was only mildly annoyed. How could I get angry when he looked so cute using his paw as a spoon. And when I had company and he jumped on the table, stuck his head, first in the communal pitcher and then in each guest's glass, because the water apparently tasted better than the fresh water I had just put in his bowl, I thought it was funny and adorable. My guests were polite, simply asking for new drinking glasses, but I saw from their surreptitious eye rolls that they thought Moe Moe's behavior was out of the bounds of normal and my tolerating it was looney. But, there comes a time when even the most indulgent, adoring mother must acknowledge that her child, in this case, her cat, may not be perfect. And there may come a time, when she must admit that both she and her child, again, in this case, her cat, may need professional help. And that time has come. Nightly,at 11 pm. my normally friendly, affectionate, sweet pussycat becomes possessed. His eyes glaze over and he stares at me malevolently as if he's never seen me before. I half expect his head to spin around 360 degrees. He jumps on the portion of my leg between the knee and ankle and sinks his teeth in. I'm prey and he's going to tear me to shreds.I try to fling him off by kicking and when that doesn't work, I pry his teeth out of my leg. I'm scared of him, but within a minute, he 's his old sweet pussycat self. I 'm bleeding and he keeps me company while I wash and disinfect my maimed leg. I was reluctant to call a therapist, because my mother always said, " Why would any mother send their child to therapy? The therapist is always going to say it's the mother's fault." When my mother would say that, I would say, "Ma, that's ridiculous," but, in fact, I learned, in therapy, that she was quite correct. It is always the mother's fault.(OK, 1% of the time it's the father's fault.) But I don't believe in demonic possession and, even if I did, I don't know any exorcists. So, Tuesday, I'm paying $350 for a therapy session with a cat therapist, probably to learn that his demonic behavior is something I caused.