© 2002 Brian Hodges - Please do not remove the copyright from this essay

y wife's cats hate me.

Joshua and Judah are their names, and ever since we moved in together, war has been declared. By "we" of course, I mean me and my wife Lauren – not the cats. Though they really were a package deal. Like when you buy an SUV and get a thirty-dollar melon baller as an "added bonus." Of course, you have no use for melons, much less a baller of them. But no matter how much you beg, you just can't convince the salesman to keep his useless utensil and just credit you the thirty bucks. So, you end up improvising some task for the baller like using it as an ice-cream scoop or a catapult.

So far Joshua and Judah have yet to demonstrate any such value.

Joshua's main function in this world is to seek out new objects to lie on. Anything from stray pieces of paper, to Tupperware lids, to remote controls, to large medical journals that Lauren is concurrently studying from. Judah's function on the other hand is to sit completely still for several minutes, then for no discernable reason - and with no discernable warning - jump up and sprint all the way across the apartment like a kitty possessed, then turn around and sprint all the way back, lay down and act as though nothing has happened.

But these are Lauren's babies. She cuddles them. She kisses them. She sings pop songs to them, changing the lyrics to be about them. "He was a Kitty Boi. He said 'Mew-y mew-y Boi.' He wasn't good enough for Meow."

I've tried making friends, but neither of them will sit still long enough to let me. If this were a cartoon, there would be a cloud of smoke occupying the space where Judah was sitting just nanoseconds before I reached out to pet him. Joshua is more passive-aggressive. He waits until I scratch him once or twice, then decides to visit the litter box.

Thankfully it's been a Cold War thus far. They've both been declawed and each of them runs and hides should I so much as hiccup. I, for my part restrain myself from punting them across the room when they get in my way.

On the first day of our co-habitation, I banished the cats from the bedroom. My allergies had started acting up but I figured I'd be fine if I at least kept the bedroom as a dander-free zone. But, whenever Lauren and I shut the door to sleep or… watch TV, they'd stand outside and howl. So we caved a little. But, I was persistent in pushing them off the bed whenever they jumped up.

Yes, but they were masters of strategy, those two. They knew there was no way I could keep a constant monitor on them. Eventually I would have to go to work. By the end of the first week, they had taken up permanent residence on my pillow. The people over at Benadryl® love me. Now, I constantly wake up on the verge of falling out of bed because Lauren has surreptitiously maneuvered herself onto my side of the mattress… Muscling me out to leave room for the cats on her side.

But I'm not going down without a fight. The last few months have seen countless acts of petty harassment as each side tries to maintain the upper hand. The cats never let me pet them when I want to. Yet they'll jump into my lap when I'm on the toilet, stick their butts in my face and dare me to scratch them. I take subtle pleasure in driving the two of them insane with my laser pointer. They chase. They pounce. But they have yet to figure out how to catch that little red dot as it darts across the floor.

And just when they're at the point of frenzy, I make the dot disappear under the dresser and watch them seethe, standing guard for hours if necessary until the blasted thing comes back out.

A normal cat's nine-life expectancy is what, fifteen years? Joshua and Judah are eight. They're indoor cats, protected far far from any busy highways. I suppose they're too clever (or scaredy) to fall for the door-accidentally-left-open trick. It's unlikely that they'll be gracing me with their ninth and eternal exeunt any time soon. Which means we're all in for another seven years of open war.

Because I'm pretty sure Lauren would never forgive me if I decided to exchange her babies for a melon baller.