Shameful Confession

I recently moved into the 6th floor of an apartment building on Queen Street.  I share my new abode with my far-too-smart-for-his-own-good tabby, Liam.  I call Liam “monkey” when I am feeling fond of him, and “rancid little shit” when I am not.

In my new digs I have a small balcony off the living room and have spent a great deal of time and effort creating an alcatraz-like environment so the aforementioned housemate cannot escape.  I am not so much afraid of him plummeting to his death (he is far too clever for that) but rather that he will squeeze his bulk under the divider between my balcony and my westerly neighbours.  I can only imagine him breaking in to their space and committing some kind of evil feline sin that would necessitate my immediate and permanent departure from the building.  He is exactly the kind of animal that would find a way to make friendly cohabitation impossible, like smothering their child or consuming an entire roast beef dinner.

The irony is that when I first moved in I left the balcony door flung open all the time with just the screen closed.  I often left the apartment completely to run short errands in the neighbourhood.  Never a problem – the cat showed precisely zero interest in the great outdoors.  Until I made the mistake upon my return from California to actually have the gall to SIT on said balcony without allowing him equal access.  Then it was war.  Yowling, scratching at the screen, constant protest. I tried yelling “No!” (frequently and loudly) to no avail.  I tried to McGyver a piece of dowel between the doors.  He figured out how to hook it out.  Then I recalled that I had in the past bought a plant sprayer purchased for precisely these punitive purposes.  I searched high and low for it in the very limited number of places it could be hiding with no luck at all.  (Remember I have a one bedroom condo, no chance of having stored it in the West Wing).   The scene in my home ran to the following:  Scratch scratch rummage yell (cat), scratch scratch rummage yell (me).  Repeat.

I couldn’t take it any more.  Finally I went to the sink, got a big mouthful of water and, in the full view of the Queen Street Coolerati, I spat it on him.

Juvenile?  Embarassing?  Effective.

He skulked away and performed a full body assault on his scratching post (which I suspect he was imagining as an effigy of yours truly).  I may have won the battle, but I may have just started one hell of a war.

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