The house cat’s only natural predator is a 2-year old boy. Our feline (Oliver) cannot rest for fear of being sat upon or aggressively preened. He’s subjected to various kinds of aural and physical torture; not for information, but something far more frightening: thrills. Imagine you’ve been taken hostage, and while treated well by the majority of your captors, one of their son’s appears to have gone rogue, ignoring the pleas of his superiors by consistently abusing you for his own pleasure.
There’s nothing Arlo wants from Oliver; no key to a safety deposit box or vig on an outstanding gambling debt. His only desire is to watch Oliver scramble to safety, which the cat tends to do only after Arlo has violated numerous articles of the Geneva Convention.
I have to admit, that by failing to defend himself, Oliver is a little complicit. We have two other cats who’ve managed to completely avoid the interrogation techniques of our sadistic prince.
Arlo’s predatory method is unique in the animal kingdom. He sneaks-up on his prey, usually while it’s sleeping, unleashes a reptilian shriek to stun it, then throws himself on top, like a heavyweight wrester attempting to pin a much lighter opponent. The cat always stays down for a three count, and though he might squirm a little, does so only to get more physically comfortable in a situation he understands is potentially life threatening, but also kinda cozy.
When he’s feeling particularly playful, the young prince will approach passed-out Oliver, and attempt to remove his fur with a flurry of manic staccato grasps. If it weren’t for his prey being declawed, I’m sure Arlo’s face would have more scratches than my Licensed to Ill CD. Instead, he receives a soft batting on the cheek and a playful nip on the arm – hardly enough to discourage future attempts.
Maybe Arlo and Oliver have their own thing going. The bond between human and animal can be complex, and it’s possible I’ve simply been socialized to the point where I can no longer understand the primal nature of a relationship between toddler and cat. I think from now on, I’ll tell guests, “Oh no, they’re just playing,” and hope I’m right. Sorry, Oliver.