“Are you going to come out, Grumpy Pants?” Ipspspsat him, shaking the fishy smelling goo packet. “Come here, honey.”
In the low light, his tail flicks, and he gives me a slow blink. Rejected. Ugh. This cat.
I adopted him three weeks ago, full of dreams of soft, warm kitty cuddles. In my fantasies, he would jump and dance while I dangled cat toys for him, and we would have conversations back and forth in adorable meows. He’d come running when I walkedin the door after work and sleep curled up next to me every night. His purr would become the happy soundtrack to my life.
Instead, he’s spent most of his time hissing at me from underneath various pieces of furniture. He only comes out to eat when I’m at work. Once in a while, he leaves his safe space to vomit on the rug in the hallway in the middle of the night.
So yeah. Cat parenthood is going great.
“Reed,” I sing again, drawing it into two long syllables.
I didn’t set out to name my pet after my boss. I fully intended on calling him something cute, but his personality hasn’t vibed with any of my attempts. Sir Fluffypants the Third. Mr. Wiggles. Anchovy. Butterball.
One day, it just clicked. His sour little face. The gray patches on his forehead that look like grumpy eyebrows. His general surliness.
To be fair, the real Reed is a lot nicer to me than this cat is.
I waggle the treat packet again, making kissy noises with zero dignity. I need this cat to love me, dang it. “Come on, Grumpus. It’s delicious. Yum yum.”
I mime eating the goop and catch a big whiff of salmon. Gross.
The cat remains unmoved.
My phone’s digital ringtone drifts up to me from downstairs. I groan, worming out from under the bed. “I’ll be back, Reed. Grumpy Gus. Whoever you are.”
I rush down the stairs and sprint the rest of the way to my phone. Once I see the screen, my excitement dies out. I’m not sure who else I expected it to be. Maybe a friend asking to get together for lunch and an afternoon wandering thrift stores to gather more trinkets for my collection.
Ha. I wish.
“Hi, Mom.” I brace myself, ready to reassure my parents that everything in my life is fantastic. Again.
“My darling Rosie! How are you?”
I drop onto the couch, setting the cat treat packet on the end table. “I’m good. Did you make it to Sydney?”
“G’day, mate!” Dad’s so close to the phone, my ears ring. “Top o’the morning to ya.”
I laugh at his silliness. “I think you’ve got your stereotypical ethnic phrases confused.”
“Crikey, you might be right!”
“Dad. Please don’t try your accents out on the locals.” They’d be packed up and shipped back to the States before he could finish his Hugh Jackman impression. He never talked like this when they were in Thailand or Costa Rica, thank goodness, but it’s still wildly inappropriate.
“Don’t worry. I’m keeping an eye on him,” Mom says.
“That’s not a knife,” Dad says in a terrible Australian accent. “Thisis a knife.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Really?” he says in his normal voice. “Crocodile Dundee?”
“I don’t think anybody watches that anymore.”
“Oh. Maybe I should try something with what’s-his-name…Chris Hemsworth?”
I can just imagine my dad mimicking happy-go-lucky Thor.
“Don’t pretend to be anybody. Just be Gary Rainey, a tourist who’s very respectful of other cultures and doesn’t do accent impressions.”
