My new year’s resolution this year is to stop hating my cat. This may sound overdramatic, but let me assure you, there is no love lost between me and good ole Marm.
We picked Marmaduke out at the SPCA during my freshman year of high-school. My parents tell me that I was begging them to let me get a cat at this stage of my life. I do not remember this and will staunchly and forever refute the validity of this claim. I do remember that Marm was in one of those single occupancy cells that they reserve for “troubled animals” and that the SPCA volunteers told us that he was a mouser of uncertain age, a tabby of some sort who was fully mature and could handle dogs. Unfortunately, only one of those statements ended up being true.
Our faithful golden retriever, Mackintosh, was seven or eight when we brought the cat home, and everyone held their breath when the two were introduced. Happily, they hit it off right away, and given that Mack was about as courageous as a bag of lettuce and Marmaduke was and remains completely apathetic about everything, the two somewhat complemented each other. They were fast friends for the next five years, until Mackintosh passed away in the summer of 2010.
That’s when the cat lost his shit.
There are people out there who would tell you that animals don’t grieve. Those people are wrong. Marmaduke had always been a somewhat surly, sedentary, snarky sort of fellow, prone to fighting with the neighbour’s cats and destroying our furniture, but after Mack peacefully passed away of old age on the floor of my bedroom, Marm’s temperament went south. He actively started picking fights with our two new puppies, Patti Mayonnaise and Dr. Pepper. He lost most of the teeth in his mouth one day, lord knows how. He began kicking the litter out of his clean litter box and going to the bathroom on the floor.
The worst part? I swear to you on my gigantic collection of nail polish that Marm thinks I had something to do with Mack’s death, because he has been systematically searching out my things and PEEING ON THEM to the extent that the door to my room is now closed at all times. This cat, who was never my best bud but who once deigned to sit on my lap and allowed me to scratch behind his ears, suddenly thinks that he’s the Dalek to my Doctor and everything I hold dear must be exterminated.
I realize I may seem like a psychotic cat abuser or crazy sociopath or something, but I have no idea how to enjoy even being in the presence of this creature any more. I am not stingy on the cat food he likes. I am not above slipping him a bit of tuna from the sushi plate. I even gave him an empty box for Christmas (he was nonplused). The cat remains hostile towards me and my things.
I need cat help, Internet. Any suggestions?