Teaching a Cat New Tricks

Today's class proceeds much the way it does on most days. After putting together what I would tentatively call "Dinner" I find myself perched atop a bar stool, leaning onto the breakfast bar with my right hand occupied by an eating utensil which is almost always a fork. I am not anti-spoon, and given the opportunity I would almost always choose chopsticks, but for reasons I don't fully understand this pro-chopstick agenda only applies at my workplace cafeteria. Perhaps it is ego-driven, as I show my western coworkers my impressive wood manipulating skills in hopes of praise or a faint whisper of admiration. In the reality I do not choose to entertain, whispers are more likely to contain terms like "weirdo" and "it's a salad, not sushi!".

Regardless of my choice of eating tool, the important part is that it is my right hand that is occupied and is thus unavailable for other actions. This is precisely why I feel an expected nudge in my left hand just moments after sitting down. I do not need to turn my head to investigate the source of this disturbance - unless a neighborhood raccoon managed to scale the uninvitingly tall walls of my deck and then breach the dual-magnet cat flap, the choice boils down to the two felines that share my residence. I will concede that from their point of view I may be a guest in their residence, but thus far we have not reached clarity on the subject.

Without turning away from my rapidly cooling meal (which I am even less likely to consume at room temperature), I mentally go through the flowchart for determining which cat is demanding my immediate attention. First off, the force of initial impact is a dead giveaway. A gentle inquisitive touch with a possible ultra-high pitched equally inquisitive "mmmrrrwl?" indicates Nyka, the queen of grace and weightlessness. A sudden slam that causes my hand to bounce into my rib cage with enough force to put my balance on this stool at risk indicates Byka, the queen of, well, whatever the opposite of grace is. She frequently miscalculates chair-jumping ballistics and either knocks the chair over or requires significantly more runway to come to a stop than the top of a stool affords her, leaving her no choice but to use me as her emergency braking appliance.

On occasion, the girls make the guessing game more difficult and arrive in a manner which leaves some doubt as to the visitor's identity. Fortunately the nose rules (to quote Michel Thomas) are able to cut straight through their charades. A wet nose on your hand indicates Byka, whereas its absence indicates a feline that is able to correctly judge distance and avoid direct contact while smelling.

My domestic companions were named according to their traits from a very young age. Nyka was a name loosely derived from the word "curious" in another language - while Byka was a similar perversion of the word "scared", and she indeed tends to choose to relocate to the darkest corner of the house at the first sign of movement, noise or any weather phenomenon.

I, on the other hand, do not appear to be named according to my traits. I have a strong tendency to place much value on physical ability and self-sufficiency, which leads me to consider Byka's WWF-style behavior a disability of sorts. Therefore on nights like this I attempt to teach Byka grace.

"Look at your sister" begins "Grace: 101" for today, as Nyka takes the teaching lead and leaps up on my desk without a second thought, knowing very little about what dangerous objects I've placed in her landing zone, yet she manages to land perfectly, needing no runway, with her paws positioned precisely in between electronics, wires, screws and occasionally my fingers.

"Keep your center of gravity low" I tell Byka as I apply enough pressure to the top of her back to correct minor defects in automotive bodywork. This is the correct amount of force for her since she's 16lbs of pure muscle (mostly because she's always tense with fear), and she seems to enjoy the attention. I then rattle the stool underneath her to show her how much more stable she has become. She stares at me with huge eyes that say more or less what they said a minute ago: "Pet. Now." So I do. But there is always tomorrow.