Not too long ago — the Ides of March, to be exact — Lennox and I adopted a cat. She was beautiful and dainty, so we named her Lady Jane Honey-Chan. With her rabbit-soft grey fur and deep green eyes, we imagined ourselves cuddling her on cold winter nights.
Unfortunately, we soon learned that her true nature was more like Calamity Jane (HBO version) than beheaded British royalty, and we have the bite marks to prove it. When these moods strike, she isn’t even Jane anymore — she’s someone I have come to call Furface McGillicutty.
Furface strikes like a snake, frequently while purring, so that it is difficult to understand what human transgression preceded the violence. In a world of generally recognized patterns, Miss McGillicutty defies reason. She is swirling chaos, all affection and razor sharp claws — sometimes in equal measure. She is pleasure, and pain — perpetrator and pet.
Jane is de Sade’s favorite kitteh.
She cannot be trusted, but she cannot be resisted. When she is calm and our bleeding has stopped, and our Neosporin is safely soaking in beneath our beige bandages, we do in fact cuddle. We are comforted.
We are conquered.