No Good Deed Goes Unscratched

THIS HAS BEEN a year of harsh rhetoric, vicious condemnations, and flagrant name-calling, and that was just between Apple and the FBI. It was much worse in politics, with candidates hurling invective at a pace not seen since, okay, last year. They’ve called each other every name in the book—a book that would be banned in most public libraries—and have made our political institutions the laughingstock of the world. And not in a good way.

Having frequently been a laughingstock myself, I know how much fun it can be, but this feels different. The very character of our nation seems to be turning into a bad-tempered sourpuss. And not in a good way. Having frequently been a bad-tempered ... (Editor’s note: Just get on with it!)

In this time of political rancor and unrestrained social hostility, Americans are yearning for words of kindness. They are craving that rare note of hope. Unfortunately, I cannot provide this. It pains me to do so, but I must join in the refrain of negativity.

I really don’t like our cat.

LIKE MANY CANDIDATES, this cat came without being requested, but unlike Marco Rubio, he never left. We heard his desperate mewing outside our home and took pity on this helpless newborn. We fed him from a bottle for a couple weeks, amused by his playful biting and scratching, unaware he was just practicing until his jaws strengthened and his claws grew more lethal. Now, he’s fully grown and no longer cute. (His head is angular, like John Kerry’s, but without the heavy-lidded weariness of diplomatic responsibility and enormous private wealth.)

He basically rules our small home, a place whose normal-looking outside hides a frightening secret within. It’s like that remote farmhouse where fun-loving young people seek refuge after their car breaks down. The house seems welcoming at first, but then a strange, rending sound is heard (the cat ripping the shower liner), or a crash in the near distance (the cat knocking over precious heirlooms, but not the ugly ones). Walking into a room, the young people sense they’re not alone, and then someone’s leg is suddenly grabbed from under the couch, or clawed at from behind a chair.

And then the first body is discovered down by the lake.

Okay, not that last part. The horror movie analogy only works until the phantom menace comes clearly into view, a harmless-appearing cat that, at the moment, is drinking from the toilet. This makes the beast considerably less threatening, but no less disturbing. (When a dog drinks from the toilet, it’s gross in a funny way. When a cat does it, it’s just disgusting.)

HIS NAME IS Panda, because of his coloring, but I would have preferred the name “Lucifer in the Flesh,” if that sufficiently captured the depth of his demonic behavior. It does not.

He greets my return home each evening by leaping over the tops of furniture and onto my leg, which causes me to cry out in pain and indisputable logic: “ Bad monkey!” And then he starts clawing his way into whatever bag or backpack I’ve put on the floor.

When we’ve had enough of his hellish comportment—or run out of the isopropyl alcohol for our many flesh wounds—we fling him into the basement, where he spends his time loudly scratching at the door.

Our other cat—cooperative, affectionate—consistently gets the popular vote, but Panda’s behavior gets all the media attention. And when he feels the public is insufficiently mindful, he meows with a vocal timbre that can only be construed as vulgar. He’s cursing at us. In cat.

IT’S NOW OBVIOUS that Panda is feral, but Will Ferrell he’s not. He was born on the mean streets of D.C., posed as a helpless little orphan, and infiltrated our innocent home to wreak the havoc of his lineage. Even the guinea pigs don’t like him, despite the empathy their own utter lack of domesticity would suggest. (Trying to take hold of a guinea pig is like chasing a chicken, which you don’t want to do in the minefield of a child’s bedroom.) The guinea pigs don’t share our fear of this feline beast, because they know they’re too big to swallow. Not that Panda hasn’t tried.

IN THIS election year of so many shocks and disappointments, we don’t know if Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump will make a good president. But we do know who makes for a very bad cat. He’s here with me now, watching my fingers as I type, wondering which ones I could live without.