There’s a reason they call them the terrible twos – the defiance, the disobedience, the disregard for accepted standards of behavior.
It’s galling to have a 2-year-old standing on your kitchen table, staring you down, while you loudly admonish them to “Get down right now! Don’t make me come in there!”
Our tiny tuxedo kitty, Freya Charlotte, turns 2 next month, but she’s exhibited this behavior consistently since we brought her home at 8 weeks old.
I thought she’d outgrow her impulsive, natural naughtiness. I assumed she’d learn that kitchen tables, refrigerator tops, and my face are not appropriate places to plant herself.
After all, this isn’t our first cat rodeo. It’s not even our first tuxedo cat. But she is our first girl. I’d love to blame her gender – or Derek’s doting – for the way she tests our patience and tabletops, but it turns out that spunkiness is simply part of the black-and-white package.
Tuxedo cats are known for being highly active and often mischievous. In fact, they’ve coined a word to describe their demeanor – tuxitude.
Freya’s got that in spades.
Her vertical leaps surpass Michael Jordan’s in his prime. We attached a cat toy on an elastic string to our French doors. When she releases the toy, it springs upward and Freya flies after it, easily reaching the top of the door.
Last month, either her athleticism or her curiosity led to an eye injury. We’re not sure what happened, but one evening we noticed she wouldn’t open her right eye. Thankfully, she was already scheduled for a checkup. Our vet said she’d scratched her cornea and sent Freya home with oral antibiotics, pain meds, and a new accessory – the dreaded cone of shame.
Knowing how important it was for her to keep her paws away from her eye, we made her wear it for the required amount of time. She wasn’t a happy camper, but her eye healed quickly.
Tuxedo cats are known for their dog-like devotion, and Freya does follow me from room to room. But it’s more of a supervisory role than a desire for closeness.
The only time she cuddles is right after breakfast. Then she squeezes her head under my chin, burrowing her nose into my neck, and purrs. Her rhythmic purr is the perfect way to wake up or enjoy a few extra minutes of sleep, aka a cat nap.
Like most tuxedos, Freya is quite social. She greets guests at the door and then goes through any bags or purses more thoroughly than TSA does. If the bag is big enough, she’ll climb in and get cozy.
She’s made herself an honorary member of the writers group I host each month. My fellow writers tolerate her intrusiveness and alert me when she’s on the kitchen table attempting to remove plastic wrap from any covered treats.
It’s embarrassing to have to get up and remove your cat from the snacks while writers are sharing their work. Ditto, trying to keep her paws off their plates.
She and Sir Walter Scott, our tabby, accompany me to my downstairs office each morning. Walter perches on the windowsill or curls up on my reading chair. Freya prefers to sit on my mouse or atop the printer – whichever is most inconvenient for me.
Recently, she accepted the position of painter’s assistant. No matter that the painter working on a downstairs bedroom didn’t want or need her help. Even with the door shut, she found a way to sneak in through the closet.
By the time the job was done, she had several new white markings on her sleek black coat.
Walter endures her antics with stoic resignation, but he often chases her around the house to remind her who really rules the roost.
Though her incorrigibility is frustrating at times, we’d never trade Freya for a docile lap cat. Her terrible twos will pass, but her sassy tuxitude is just part of her charm.
Cindy Hval 