Manipulation

by gretchen

The Kriesens are cat people. We don't know about dogs. We don't understand dependent animals that need you to let them out to go to the bathroom or who greet you when you come home. We valued the independent and the graceful, the intelligent and the beautiful. The snobs of the animal world. Cat people. To. The. Bone.

In my house, it was totally acceptable to decline helping with anything by uttering one simple statement: "I can't; the cat's on me." This was invariably followed by my mother calling whoever was next in line to help. In fact, from time to time, when no one was looking, some of us were known to pick up a nearby cat and put it on our laps just after being called to set the table. I wonder if our mom knows we did that. But hell, we weren't lying. There's that.


So when my sister and I found a little black cat screaming her head off in the woods near our house, we were prewired to bring the cat home, only partially to increase the probability of being able to get out of chores. We brought her to my mother and the three of us stood on the havast-gold linoleum floor that summer night, devising our scheme to get past The Warden (Dad).

The Plot is an art we Kriesen women learned to master at a very young age. It involved the "illegal shopping trip" with our mom, who was using a credit card he thought she had given up. Imagine the scene: the three of us pull in. One is sent inside on recon and reports back regarding his whereabouts. Someone is designated "the distractor" who has to go strike up a conversation with him and/or keep him downstairs in his shop by breaking something he needs to fix immediately (note: I chose poorly once and my sister is still ranting about the porcelin doll I sacrificed for the cause). While this sham goes on, the other two grab all of the shopping bags and stuff them into the closet farthest away from him. We never, ever got caught. That is, until he intercepted the mail and found the credit card statement, by then three months late because my mother had been hiding it. That day was a good day to go to a friend's house for as long as possible.

Now, imagine a similar situation: only this time, we have a cat to hide. We determined he was downstairs, watching television. Michelle was supposed to go down there and ask him to help with her Trig homework (which would result in a 45-minute homework session with him -- that's called taking one for the team). Meanwhile, I was supposed to shuffle the cat to my bedroom. We were going to see just how long we could hide her there.

Not long.

On my way up, this mouthy cat first blew her cover by screaming her head off. She then assured herself jail time by running top speed down the stairs and into The Warden, who she proceeded to climb on, lick, and snuggle into. The three of us ran down -- shocked and guilty as hell.

"We've had that for months!" I shouted (panic), forgetting she wasn't a new sweater I was trying to convince him he hadn't noticed before. Everyone stared at me.

"She just ran in the house," my sister stated calmly, looking him dead in the eye. Accomplished liar, that one.

"Now, Arthur," my mother started. "The poor thing was down by the side of the road..." and off she went into the sob story, only 27% factual. She finished. We stood before him, waiting for him to banish the cat who stupidly ran right to him and sat down. Served her right. Dumb kitty just sat there, purring, perched on him like she owned him. "Arthur, if you don't want her, then you have the chore of marching up those stairs and throwing her out yourself."

"I can't," he said. "The cat's on me."