Buddy and the People. Sounds like a dance-rock band, doesn’t it? Or maybe an 80s pop group with a Huey Lewis vibe.
One of the more interesting aspects of being a cat caretaker minion is seeing how our furry friends interact with other people. For those of us who write about cats — and everyone who has a cat — most of our musings tend to focus on our direct relationships with the little ones.
But getting to sit back and watch how they respond to others can be just as much fun, and sometimes we get to see new aspects of our cats’ personalities.
Buddy is exceptionally friendly and sociable. I like to think it’s because I socialized the shit out of him as a kitten, taking him to new places, having him meet new people, and even making friends with a few dogs. But the truth is he’s been that way since kittenhood, and hopefully I did my best to encourage it.
My Brother, the Other Big Buddy
My brother is Buddy’s favorite person in the world, aside from Big Buddy of course. Bud knows he’s family and treats him that way.
When my brother was staying with me for a few nights and he took the couch, there could not be a closed door between us. Buddy wasn’t having it.
Eventually I relented, warned my brother that he’d likely be startled by feline hi-jinx before falling asleep, and would be woken up rudely at least once overnight. Maybe he’d wake to find Buddy perched on his chest and licking his face. Maybe he’d be violently ripped out of sleep by my jerk of a cat pouncing on his stomach. Or maybe he’d get the classic “Isn’t your face a reasonable place to walk?” indifference cats are famous for.
My Niece, the Terrible Toddler
(Buddy retreating from my niece. This was the one and only day he wore a collar, spending most of his time trying to get it off before I relented after about two hours and removed it for him.)
His daughter, my niece, is a completely different story. Buddy is terrified of her.
They were babies at the same time, and we’ve got some cute photos of the two of them. I’ve always been careful to supervise any interaction, making sure they’re gentle with each other: No tail-pulling, no clawing. They were good together.
Then my niece became fully ambulatory, and everything changed. Suddenly Buddy’s home, his kingdom, was invaded by this lumbering, oblivious toddler who could very likely hurt him by lack of fine motor skills alone. She chased him, tried to pet him and was delighted every time he ran in terror and retreated to higher ground.
One weekend when I was the babysitter, the Funcle, she asked if she could use the wand toy — Da Bird, for cat servants in the know — to play with him.
Why not? I thought. I showed her how to hold the wand and demonstrated how we play with the cat chasing the feathers.
Then I handed it to her and watched with horror as she proceeded to swing it at Buddy like a slugger trying to blast a 3-0 pitch out of a ballpark.
We put the wand toys on hold after that.
My Mom, the Wicked and Cruel
Buddy loves my mom, but my mom does not love Buddy.
She’s the kind of person who gets grossed out by cat hair on her clothes and thinks cats are inscrutable, selfish little beasts. Most of the time she ignores poor Buddy’s attempts at affection. She won’t acknowledge him when he rubs up against her legs or bunts his head against her hand.
This has afforded me the opportunity to make her feel guilty with cartoonishly monstrous accusations:
“This poor little cat just wants you to love him, and you can’t even give him a scratch on the head and say good boy? What kind of person is so cold-hearted?”
She’s watched Buddy for me a few times, mostly when I’ve been gone for long weekends. She knows Buddy sleeps on top of me, and I really lay the guilt trip on her for refusing to allow him to sleep in bed with her:
“You’re telling me you’re going to listen to little Buddy crying at the bedroom door, you’re going to hear his tiny paws beating desperately against the door and ignore his plaintive mews for comfort? He just wants to be loved! You are a terrible, disgusting person. Oh, and don’t forget to put fresh water in his bowl every time you feed him.”
Then to add the final touch, the killer ingredient in the guilt sandwich, I’ll text her my first night I’m away and tell her to send me daily photos of Bud next to the current day’s newspaper, so I know he’s still alive.
My Friends, the Apostates
True to a cat, the Budster is like a heat-seeking missile when it comes to approaching the least cat-friendly person in the room.
It’s like he’s saying “You will like me, human!” as he sprinkles on the sugar, rubbing up against the newcomer and purring like a sweet little kitty.
“You aren’t big on cats, are you?” I’ll usually ask. “Just pet him. Rub your hand through the fur on his back and scratch the top of his head.”
Invariably: “Wow, his fur is so soft!”
And just like that Buddy’s made a new friend, or has enlisted the services of a new servant, however you choose to look at it.
Perhaps the best are the naysayers and dog people. They never fail to set themselves up.
“Cats are okay, I guess, if you’re into stubborn pets who just sit there,” they’ll say. “But dogs? Dogs can do stuff. You can train dogs. You can’t train cats.”
That’s my favorite moment.
“Hey Bud!” I’ll call out, and Buddy’ll pad on over to me. “High five!”
The disbelief on the faces of doubters when Buddy slaps his little paw against my open palm is delicious.
Buddy 1, Guests 0.
Pain In The Bud 