The Training is Mutual

When my husband's father heard that we were adopting cats, he said, "You don't train cats.  Cats train you."  I remember feeling a puff of indignant pride.  I had, after all, read three cat rearing books cover to cover, and felt that I was capable--nay--equipped to establish just who would be training who.

As it turned out, I was right.  When it comes to cat rearing, I am a strict behaviorist.  In my home, cat treats are not just handed out willy-nilly.  You must scratch the scratching post to get a treat.  My felines know which surfaces they are allowed on, and which they are not, and when the line is crossed, a simple snap of the fingers serves to snap them back to reality, where they hastily dismount the tabooed surface.

However, I've come to recognize that there is truth to my father-in-law's statement as well.  When Vespers' operatic soprano fails to rouse us from our post-work day mortem to play with him, he adopts a very clever, very cunning classic conditioning routine himself.  He will approach us, wherever we are, wearing his most beguiling adorable expression.  Once he has our attention, he will engage in all the subtle bits of body language a cat uses when it most wants to be pet and cuddled.  But beware, for the moment your hand brushes his silky fur, he is off like a cannon, waiting two feet away.  Follow him, and the sequence is repeated until he has led you right to the door of the cat toy closet. There he sits perfectly still, staring up at you with round-eyed innocence, with only his lashing tail betraying his excitement.

It's OK, Vespers.  I understand.  It's the same triumph I feel when I casually pull out the grooming brush and watch you walk slowly to me, with eyes fastened on the enticing bristles.  Then I pull you down into my lap for brushing and cuddles, and really, the chance observer would not be able to tell who of the two of us is the happiest.