Zach attack: The warrior cat rises

When Zach came along I had already started my fourth decade and was beyond overwhelmed.  I was raising two little girls on my own, was waitressing four nights a week, had grad school two nights a week plus the attendant homework, and picked up freelance writing and editing jobs whenever I could. 

There was always somewhere to be: work, school, doctors, play dates. There was never time to just plain sit and think. There was barely time for sleeping. Cleaning the house was bottom on the priority list. The sink was always filled with crusty pans, piles of laundry awaited folding, the carpet, once a lush clear celery, turned gray under the amassed dirt and dust.  And suddenly, we had a four-legged furniture shredder too.

I want to say I loved the guy and appreciated all the affection he showered on my kids, but the truth is,  as a young dude he was a one-cat wrecking machine. He destroyed my dining room set, an expensive hand-me-down from my mom. He dug canyons in the table legs, and tore holes in the cane of the high-backed chairs. He ripped the cushions of my chintz sofa set and carved up my Ethan Allen tables. He coughed up hair balls onto everything: upholstery, carpets, floors, bedspreads, toys, books, clean laundry.

  

My girls say that back then, this was all I ever said:  “I hate that cat! He makes me crazy! He ruins everything.”  I remember that.  I was still saying it up until just a few years ago. 

The girls were no help. 

“Oh mom. You know you love him.” (Back then I definitely didn’t.)

“He’s your baby.” (In my nightmares, maybe.) 

And then one of them would pick him up. He’d struggle to get loose, and land a few good scratches in the process. They’d press him against me and I’d have no choice but to play along. He’d nestle his soft head against my cheek and rest his chin on my shoulder. His body would flatten against mine. He’d lie still for a few seconds, and sigh like a contented little toddler. Then just as I started thinking that maybe he wasn't so bad after all, he’d squirm from my arms, drop to the floor, and scoot away. 

Zach loved to catch us by surprise. He’d lunge at us, claws and all, when we least expected it – in the middle of the night as I exited the dark bathroom, rounding a corner on a quiet Sunday morning, the newspaper in one hand and a full mug of steaming coffee in the other. 

He’d hide under furniture and swat at our legs. My older daughter had a sleep over party when Zach was just a few months old. If I hadn’t eventually locked the tiny beast in the cellar, we’d  have all ended up in the emergency room. As it was, every single little girl left the next day with a new birthday T-shirt decorated with neon puffy paint, and a scrape or two on her ankles. 

I had planned for Zach to be an indoor cat because the vet said responsible cat owners kept their pets inside. But his attacks were relentless and finally for the sake of my house and any visitors that still dared enter, I had to give in and unleash Zach on the neighborhood. 

From then on at our house, we had two seasons:  winter, and dead critter season. Zach was born to hunt in much the same way that I was born to devour chocolate.  In both cases, the urge was constant and uncontrollable.  Mouse carcasses littered our front and back yard much of the year. I spent a good part of every week in the summer scooping punctured chipmunk bodies from our pool water.  

No creatures were safe on our property, save for the monstrous black crows that roosted every spring in the pine tree outside the dining room. The only time I ever saw Zach cower was when those birds, big as cats themselves, let loose their cawing battle cries and swooped down at him, pecking and screaming and forcing him to run for cover under the nearest car or rhododendron bush.  I figured that he must have attacked a nest at one point and the crows were all about exacting revenge.  

Except for the crows, Zach was fearless. He’d glare down doggies twice his size as they walked by on their leashes. Sometimes, he’d trot alongside them, dart in close and hiss, then jump back gracefully, just micro millimeters out of reach, when they’d lunge his way. 

He especially loved tormenting Max, the cranky bijon frise who lived across the street. Max spent most of the day cooped up in his living room, barking from the picture window at pedestrians, cars, and Zach, who enjoyed spending hours stretched out languorously on sunny patches of Max’s driveway.

One day, Max came to our pool with his people. The personality clash between our two pets was often a topic of conversation. We speculated on what would happen, should we give Max freedom to act on his urges. Would Zach finally get what was coming to him?

From his perch high above us on the deck railing, Zach watched us coo and fuss over Max. He sat there alert, ears pricked, body tense, a soldier ready for attack. 

My neighbor Greta unleashed the unsuspecting moppet, and followed behind him as he sniffed at our feet, pawed at a spider, then walked toward the pool. He licked at the water a bit, lost interest in it, then made his way to some bushes.  I watched, fascinated. I wasn’t used to a pet that was so obedient and sweet.

The attack by Zach came out of nowhere. None of us were ready. One minute, all was quiet and calm. Then with a hiss, Zach leaped from the bushes, Max whined and took off, with Zach right behind him. They circled the pool once, twice, three times, four. Max put up a good fight at first, but quickly his energy flagged. His short clumsy gait was no match for Zach's elegant bounding. The distance between them narrowed. Greta grabbed at Max. I went for Zach. Our efforts were useless. Our hysterical laughing crippled us. 

Just as Zach closed in, Max vaulted like an Olympian, and landed with a splash in the middle of the deep end.  Zach stopped short, and just missed falling in himself. He sat back on his haunches and watched Max paddle toward the shallow end, where Greta stood on the stairs calling him. Zach watched Max climb out of the pool and shake off the wet, then lie down on a sunny patch next to his mother’s chair. 

I braced myself for Zach to attack again, but he didn’t. Instead he licked himself a bit, then trotted toward us. He gave Max no more than a cursory glance, curled up in the shade under my lounge chair, just inches from his soaked archenemy, and fell asleep.  

Master of our domain