AILUROPHOBIA

They May Be Enchanting But I Still Don’t Trust Cats

I have my reasons

Ailurophobia — An intense fear of cats that’s strong enough to cause panic and anxiety when around or thinking about cats.

Have you ever noticed how many cat people there are? That sounds like a setup for a Seinfeld routine. But really.

I had my lightbulb moment when I was in a chat recently with some other writers and editors. Everyone was showing off their cat photos. It has now replaced baby pictures as the thing to do. Writers write about them and other cat lovers gush about how cute they are. Or they laugh about their own cat’s finicky personalities.

I try to play along. I really hate being on the sidelines when everyone else is having fun. FOMO is my middle name.

It’s not that I don’t like cats. I can even understand the obsession with them. But I’ve just had a few bad experiences that make me a little less trusting of the feline.

At one time, I loved cats. When they would snuggle up against me I would try to find that perfect place to scratch that would make them purr.

I can actually pinpoint the exact moment that my love of cats turned to fear.

My grandmother lived in an old walk-up apartment in downtown Edmonton. We learned quickly that we had to warn her before we came over. That was not easy to do in the era before cell phones. But we needed to give her enough time to stash her cat in the bedroom before we got there.

The first time she wasn’t able to round up the cat, I ran up to my grandma’s door and knocked. Big mistake.

Suddenly a wail rose up from the other side of the door. It was a cross between a tortured howl and a lion’s roar. I could hear my grandma trying to corral her cat, which was almost as impossible as it sounds.

After what seemed like several minutes, my grandmother opened the door and welcomed us inside. My eyes were like saucers as I quickly scanned the room, making sure I wasn’t going to be attacked by the ferocious beast. I could hear him howling from behind the closed bedroom door. That was no ordinary cat. What happened to that cute little Siamese kitten when my grandma got him?

My dad thought the whole situation was hilarious, and he couldn’t stop laughing. Between his boisterous laugh and the cat’s howling it sounded like I was in some maniacal house of horrors. Who wouldn’t be traumatized?

Grandma told us all to sit down and she’d get us something to drink, coffee for the adults and juice for me. And then, without any warning, she opened the bedroom door and yelled out “Sacha be quiet.”

I heard her words, but I was more interested in the sleek, dark-gray cat that shot out of the bedroom and ran into the living room. My grandma quickly told me not to let my hand hang over the arm of the sofa, because Sasha would bite it. I swallowed hard and moved closer to my mom, who looked just as scared as I was.

Sacha look pissed as he went around to each of us, sniffing and rubbing up against us. It was clear who was in charge. Grandma laughed, saying “He thinks he’s a guard dog.” It worked for me.

Siamese cats are truly the most badass of all the cats.

Fast forward several years, and I would stay at my friend’s farm quite regularly. Whenever her parents would go away, I would stay there to keep her company, isolated in the country.

I would also help her feed the animals. Not the horses, someone else did that. But the four dogs and the hundred or so cats. And no I’m not exaggerating.

It started out slowly with a couple of non-sterilized cats on the property. Soon every cat, feral and friendly, within 50 miles moved onto the farm. It was a good gig, with lots of places to hunt, play and sleep. There was also an old garage that was attached to the main house. It wasn’t used for anything more than storage. It’s also where the furnace was set up to heat the house.

One night as I was visiting, I was in the TV room with my friend and her mom. Suddenly I could hear echoes of a tiny kitten, that appeared to be coming from the furnace vent. I was horrified. The poor thing surely couldn’t survive that.

My friend told me that every time there was a new litter, kittens would crawl inside the furnace vents, not inside the furnace but still a very hot place to be, even on a cold winter day.

But the worst part for me was feeding time. The cats knew what time it was because they could sense me as soon as I started bracing myself. I would try to sneak into the garage as quietly as I could. But you can’t fool a cat.

As soon as I dipped the plastic cup into the feed bag, cats would come streaming in from every direction. There was only a dim lightbulb in the garage, so I could see them lurking around me with their eyes catching the light. The most feral cats kept their distance while they stalked their prey. Which happened to be my hand that was holding the scoop of dry cat food.

Other cats, those that were less afraid, ran right up to me and started to climb up my legs. Their eyes looking up at me, appeared almost mirror-like and devilish. And the sound of howling cats screeching from the shadows of the garage. Skirmishes were breaking out with their teeth bared, ears back, and eyes focused on their enemy. As I dumped the first piles of food onto the floor I experienced a true feeding frenzy. Only when I got the first scoop down did they ignore me and I was able to escape.

My friend would laugh as I burst into the house with my terror-stricken face telling her what she needed to know. The words would pour out of me. Blackie snagged my sweater with his claws. Meow Meow wouldn’t leave me alone. Okay, the names were not the most original but I think you give up trying to name them once you get past the first ten or so.

Meow Meow was like the queen bee. She may have been a house cat at one time but now she lived outside for the most part. She was a sweet cat that had several litters of kittens.

One time I was staying at the farm. I was waiting for my friend to get home from work but her sister-in-law was there cooking up some dinner for us. Right when I was about to go outside to feed the cats Meow Meow raced inside the house. This was not good because she was very pregnant and ready to deliver any day. I had firm instructions to make sure she stayed outside.

She flew through the open door and just like that she was gone. I searched high and low and couldn’t find her. There were too many elusive places for a cat to have her babies.

Suddenly we heard a loud meow coming from the front sunroom.

We found Meow Meow in obvious distress, half hiding under the coffee table. She was about to deliver her kittens.

I had no idea what to do. It didn’t appear that there was much we would have to do. This wasn’t her first rodeo. She kept moving, pacing, panting, and baring those scary cat teeth. And every once in a while, there would be a sound that could only be described as a cross between a loud howl and a meow.

As each kitten was born she would look back between her legs and then appear to be nibbling and licking the umbilical cord. Then the next one would come and she would go through the same manoevres.

After seven babies it looked like it was over. She looked exhausted. I didn’t have enough time to be scared surrounded by all that cuteness. The miracle of birth managed to temper my feelings.

I’m still wary of cats. But I still love to be around them… well sometimes. Only if they are calm and friendly. I’m still terrorized whenever I see a hissing cat that is directing its ferocity in my direction.

And I avoid Siamese cats at every turn.

Thanks for reading.