We knew that an additional cat would mean more work. But we didn’t realize that it would mean less sleep.
Since we already had two cats, I wasn’t keen on getting a third in the first place. But the rest of the family thought it was a great idea, and it was Thing Two’s birthday, so… I relented. “But it has to be good with little kids,” I cried as they headed out for the Humane Society. “Jaxar’s only two, and he’s terrible with cats!”
They returned with Simon. He was a three year-old gray tabby with toddler experience, a boundless supply of affection, and a couple infectious diseases he’d picked up at the shelter.
“It’s fine,” my beautiful lion-tamer wife told me. “We just have to keep him quarantined from the other cats. For a week. In our room. Since, you know, that’s where the backup litter box is.”
And it would have been fine, except Smudgie, our 30-pound alpha cat, has a pathological hatred of all closed doors. It was easy enough to ignore his complaints during the day, but at night…
“Guys!” he whined from behind the door. “This thing is closed! And… And I think there’s another cat in there with you. Let me in and we’ll get this straightened out.”
The whining wasn’t as bad as the knocking.
“Guys!”
Knock knock knock knock knock knock.
“Guys!”
Knock knock knock knock knock knock.
…and so it went for an hour. Maybe two. Possibly three. After a while we drifted to sleep, but our slumber was thin and infested with dreams of woodpeckers.
The next morning, my bleary-eyed wife turned to me. “I have an idea.”
Her idea, of course, was brilliant. She pulled out an old baby gate (now useless against Jaxar, Destroyer of Gates) and set it up across the hallway about six inches in front of our door. While the gate was closed, Smudgie couldn’t reach the door.
He couldn’t knock.
We could sleep.
It was glorious.
That was a week ago. Simon’s out of quarantine now. He’s finding his place with the other cats, who seem to enjoy showing him around the place and teaching him their tricks.
I just hope no one teaches him how to knock.
