Welcome Home!

My cat has found a girlfriend. Not that there would be anything wrong with it being a boyfriend, but for the sake of this column, let’s assume it’s a girl cat. The point is I haven’t turned it upside down to check.

It’s a cute little chubby thing, grayish, no tail – small ears, huge eyes. I can see how she’s attractive in that soft way.

Felix is a boy cat, all right, but he’s no longer, um, intact, so it’s safe to assume this relationship will remain strictly platonic.

In other words: Regardless of sexual orientation, there will be no kittens.

But my former docile cat companion, whose bed- and eating-times were more regular than mine, now behaves like a delinquent teen.

Pre-girlfriend, it would take a couple of minutes of coaching to get Felix off the couch and outside, when I got home at night.

Moments later, he’d be screaming to get back inside, followed by another meow-session by the fridge until food hit his dish.

On most evenings, during and after dinner, I could count on more howling until I’d go sit on the couch so he could position his shedding behind in my lap, fall asleep purring and growl at me if I got up – or tried reading the paper.

Not so anymore. I am no longer the center of his attention and, horror of all horrors, he’s beginning to stay out all night whenever possible.

And we haven’t even had the “coyotes will eat you talk” yet.

I am a woman scorned, second-best to this cute little soft thing he’s cuddling up to out there on the back steps.

Well, cuddling may be the wrong word.

In true cat fashion the two spend hour after hour just staring at each other while pretending the other cat isn’t there.

I guess if they were humans they’d be in that dating-phase where you walk into the room pretending your crush isn’t there, then act surprised when he is (duh!).

Makes me wonder if guys really fall for that?

Anyhow, if Felix remains inside at night, lonesome howls can be heard from my front steps, eventually driving him into a total feline frenzy.

He completely forgets that he’s fixed, and soon he’s running up and down the stairs screaming, “Princess, daaaarling, sweetie pie… hold on… I just need to get my lazy owner out of bed and I’ll be there. Or I’ll jump through the window screen.”

Maybe he’ll come home next week and tell me he’s getting married at Hoopfest.

That’s fine, but don’t expect me to pay for the reception.

A box of live mice and 20 cans of tuna in water can be quite expensive these days.