Meanwhile, the Cat Telemann…

Pound per pound, tiny Truffle has used up a lot of space in this blog since I adopted him in January. By comparison the cat Telemann, like many a firstborn child, has temporarily receded into the background. Do cats feel jealousy? If they do, they mask it like they mask the subtler emotions, such as nostalgia or schadenfreude. But one thing I do know is that, for whatever reason, he has lately reverted to the destructive habits of his kittenhood.

With his gray coat and white socks and mittens, the infant Telemann was off the charts adorable, but he was a scourge of biblical proportions. Night and day he caromed around the house, wreaking havoc. In a single memorable week he scratched a leather recliner to shreds, broke two lamps, and chewed up my yoga block. Time did its work, however, and over the next couple of years things settled down a bit. Then, just as he turned eight, a comfortably mature age for a cat, Truffle arrived. And now, as if I didn’t have enough to deal with, Telemann is regressing.

The first thing he did after Truffle joined us was to jump up on the kitchen counter, open the door (how?) of the wall-mounted cabinet, and eat Truffle’s dinner. He has always had a thing for plants, understandable in an indoor cat, so I have limited my indoor jungle to tough-leaved species such as ficus, jade, and, toughest of all, a yucca—all in vain. Telemann is at best a medium-sized cat, so how do you explain the shredded tip of a yucca leaf that—I just measured it—hangs 39″ above the floor?

I also keep a spider plant on top of an eight-foot bookcase, the only place where it is safe from Telemann. Every morning, as a special treat, I cut off a piece and he gobbles it up. But the plant had grown so large and made so many babies which had themselves reached adulthood that I thought it would be o.k. to move the plant to my desk where I could enjoy it. Surely Telemann couldn’t do much damage to a plant that weighed more than he did.

I was wrong. I put the plant on the desk one night, and by morning 95% of its leaves had had major chunks eaten. There was, unsurprisingly, a spot of vomit on the floor: Telemann, like an ancient Roman at an all-night orgy, had eaten, vomited, then eaten some more.  I could practically hear the spider plant and her children moaning in distress, so back it went to the top of the bookcase to recover in safety.

But here is the worst. Inspired by the dog training videos I mentioned in my last post, I ordered a treat pouch online. Worn around my waist, the treat pouch was supposed to enable me to engage in impromptu training sessions with Truffle throughout the day. He would learn to associate me with the thing that dogs love most in this world, food, and it would go a long way to making him into a confident, well-adjusted little dog. The pouch arrived, and was a marvel. Made of a soft rubber-like material, it opened at the touch of a finger (thus allowing me to reward Truffle in the precious one second that is the limit of a dog’s powers of association) and snapped closed all by itself. I loved that treat pouch and so did Truffle. We trained all day long that first day, and at night I foolishly set it on the stage of the spider plant disaster, my desk. In the morning, the treat pouch was torn to shreds, the kibble gone. I have since purchased a second pouch, which I keep in my underwear drawer. Telemann hasn’t figured out how to open that yet.

So do Telemann’s depredations mean he’s jealous of Truffle and feels neglected by me? Is he angry? Is he depressed? He doesn’t look depressed. Rather, I suspect that he feels stimulated and reenergized by the presence of Truffle, and dissipates that extra energy by tearing around the house and tearing things up. I think he’s having fun.