I have a son named Charlie AND three cats, so this really caught my eye...

My cat might be a vampire

By Bob Rybarczyk

SPECIAL TO THE POST-DISPATCH

08/19/2008

I might be raising a vampire cat.

I don’t understand cats.

I just don’t. I never really have. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve watched our cats doing something and wondered what in the hell they’re thinking. They think a piece of paper makes a perfect platform for a six-hour nap. They refuse to eat the last few pieces of kibble in their dish, and yet they are all too happy to drink out of the toilet. You get the point.

What surprises me the most is that they seem to keep coming up with new ways to be weird. I’ve only been around cats for the last four years or so, but you’d think four years would be more than enough time to figure out a species that can be amused for days by a pipe cleaner. Nope.

We have two cats in our house, Frisco and Charlie. Frisco is 14, large enough to exhibit his own gravitational pull, and generally disgruntled. Charlie is less than a year old, apparently made of balsa wood and rubber bands, and a complete idiot. They are Fatboy and the Freakshow. The immovable object and the unstoppable force.

Big fat Frisco sleeps 23.99 hours a day. When he’s not sleeping, he’s eating or seeking out a new place to sleep. His hobbies include sleeping and gaining weight. Charlie barely sleeps at all and is about as bright as a slab of poorly cooked liver. He finds everything to be either fascinating or terrifying. There is no middle ground. One second he can be sprinting through the house like he’s being chased by Satan on a scooter, and the next he’ll be lying in your arms waiting for you to rub his belly.

When we first introduced Charlie to Frisco last winter, Frisco spent the better part of a month hiding in the basement. We weren’t sure if he was afraid of Charlie or just really hacked off at us. Eventually they found a way to peacefully coexist. They weren’t buddies by any means, but they made it work.

A few months ago, that all changed. Charlie decided, I guess, that he was tired of avoiding Frisco. Instead, he began assaulting him.

At first, Charlie would simply run up to Frisco and start whacking him in the head or wrestling with him. It seemed like the kind of things kittens do when they want to play. Frisco, being the cranky old man that he is, would want none of it. He’d fight back but would give it a minimum effort. His goal was not to play, but to inflict just enough pain to get Charlie to go away. Unfortunately, despite weighing more than several third-world nations, Frisco is a mediocre fighter. He gets in a good shot once in a while, but for the most part all he does is get Charlie in the mood for more shenanigans.

None of this really seemed all that weird or surprising. Kittens, especially male kittens, enjoy a good whack in the head once in a while. When I was a kid, a crack upside the noggin was a good time.

A couple weeks ago, however, Charlie changed his tactics, and this is the part that has me confused. Charlie, you see, has begun licking Frisco. Now don’t start going all, “Awww, isn’t that adorable,” because you haven’t heard the entire thing. I actually thought it was adorable the first time I saw it, too. I should have known better.

The first time I saw it, Charlie walked up to Frisco as if he were in the mood for a ruckus, but instead of whacking Fat Boy upside the head, he put him in this kitty-headlock sort of grip and began licking Frisco’s head and ears. “Aww,” I said. “Isn’t that…” But before I could finish, Charlie’s mouth opened, exposing his little kitty fangs, and he bit Frisco right in the neck.

This did not go over well with Frisco. Not one bit. He cracked open a six-pack of pain and went after Charlie like he was made out of delicious turkey. If there had been a crowbar nearby, Frisco would have, through sheer force of will, grown opposable thumbs and wielded it like a baseball bat.

Charlie’s fast, and Frisco tires after about two seconds of activity, so the little one was able to get away unscathed. I figured I’d never see anything that stupid again.

Again, I should have known better. The very next day, Frisco was sleeping on the floor and Charlie climbed on top of him, licked his head and ears, and chomped him in the neck. Once again, Frisco raged against the machine. This time, though, Charlie didn’t instantly flee. He stuck around for what he probably thought was a rollicking good time.

Oddly enough, Frisco didn’t really seem all that homicidal. He fought back, but not like before. Instead, he rolled around with Charlie a bit, whacked him on the head a couple dozen times, and chased him away. I didn’t get it.

As the days went by, I saw the same thing over and over. Lick, bite, scrap. Lick, bite, scrap. Frisco had to know that whenever Charlie licked him, a bite in the neck was coming. Right? Frisco’s stupid, but he can’t be that stupid. You’d think that he’d kick Charlie in the chin any time he stuck out his tongue.

And why is Charlie even bothering to lick Frisco in the first place? Does he think Frisco’s going to be fooled by the bizarre display of faux affection? Or does he do it because he finds Frisco tasty? Why bite him in the neck in the first place? Was the usual form of wrestling not entertaining enough?

You see, this is all stuff I don’t understand. Dozens of questions, not one single answer. I’m left to simply wonder. It makes me crazy. I’d give anything to have the cats speak English for even a few minutes, just so I could ask them these things.

Although, you know, even if I could ask them, they’d probably just shrug and say they had no idea why they do what they do. They’d probably ask me why I spend so much time sitting in front of the computer or eating things that don’t taste like dead birds.

Maybe it’s better that I don’t know. I suppose as long as Charlie doesn’t start biting me in the neck, I shouldn’t worry about it.

Of course, there’s always the possibility that Charlie’s a vampire, and that it’s just a matter of time before all of us, Frisco included, become his mindless slaves.

Nah. Vampires don’t drink out of the toilet.

Bob Rybarczyk (brybarczyk@sbcglobal.net) writes stuff. He enjoys things that go boing. His first novel, “Acoustic Kitty,” is now available at several local Borders stores, and he’ll be signing copies at the Sunset Hills location on Sunday, September 14. Look for him on Facebook, and drop him a line to sign up for his handy FringeMail reminder service.