Suspicions about Oreo

I have been in denial for awhile, but I can no longer put off the obvious conclusion: we have a bigot residing within Chez Gunther. It is Oreo. I’ve concluded that she does not like cats.

The joke's on her, since she herself is a bi-color domestic short hair. She has lived here for five months now and still has not adjusted to the point where she can be in the same room at the same time with her sisters Nyla and Gigi. If she is in the living room and happens to see one of the girls peer at her through the window from the sun porch, Oreo will hiss and flee back to her basement sanctuary. We used to have a cat-shaped wood block on display and she hissed at that too!

This is embarrassing for me to confess my suspicions, since I am a supporter of the Southern Poverty Law Center. Don’t get me wrong: Oreo is a very affectionate cat to her humans. Although given the atrocities mankind has inflicted on each other since we either climbed out of the primordial soup or was cleaved from somebody’s rib (pick your faith), then I must admit that Oreo’s devotion is misplaced. In the long run, she is probably better off loving her fellow felines.

Her hostility is now part of our daily routine. I will bring her breakfast – fish or beef, no chicken - and instead of jumping into her food bowl, she will make a quick saunter over to the basement couch, where we will sit together. She will rub against me, sometimes stand on her hind legs to lick my cheek (the one on the face), and cuddle up against me so I can stroke her fur repeatedly while telling her that she is a pretty girl. For the record, she is black on her back, white belly and mittens, while her facial markings are a half-and-half mixture of both colors.

Our petting session will last until she instructs me that she has had enough. Oreo signals we’re done with (what I believe the French call) a brief psychotic episode. She will reach up with claws out; lash out at my right arm so that she is able to pull my entire limb out of its socket. At this point, I softly tell her (so softly that Warrior Queen can hear me through the closed basement door), “Okay we’ll stop. Go get your breakfast,” while I ignore the blood gushing from the wound.

I don’t want to over dramatize this, but my right arm is my most useful appendage. I write with it, eat with it, dress myself with it, and communicate with Warrior Queen what I think of her with it. In short, I don’t think I could survive without it.

I am not exaggerating! My arm will be totally separated from my trunk and I will slowly hobble up the steps to show Warrior Queen my latest wound. This has happened several times, but WQ has not believed that this has ever happened because, through some miracle or perhaps spontaneous regeneration (pick your faith), my arm is fully restored by the time I reach the living room to show WQ my wound. 

 

At this point, I say, “Look at what that psychotic bitch did to me today!” Then I’ll see that my arm is not showing any trace of trauma, and I’ll sheepishly use the old Python line, “But I got better!”

Don’t you hate when that happens?

I don’t know if Oreo’s psychoses are Freudian, Jungian, or even Felinian, but she does have issues. We haven’t thought about introducing her to a therapist (yet), but I have a theory about treating her. I don‘t think Oreo realizes that she herself is a member of the species which she most despises. In the spirit of - and I’m paraphrasing Frederick Douglass here - that each of our cats has different markings but they’re all the same underneath, I believe we should make Oreo more self aware of her being.

I’ve thought about placing a mirror in the basement so she can meet the “other” cat in the house and see if she responds with a rub or a hiss. If she gets used to being around this other cat, then she may grow to like it, love it, and in turn love herself and love other cats. Or am I over thinking this?

Of course this experiment might lead to a second heretofore unimaginable possibility. If she looks in the mirror and does not see her reflection…then we’ve got another problem.

Of course this second possibility might explain the black cape she likes to wear…

(Thank you for reading! Oreo, can Daddy have his arm back now?)