The Felix Unger of cats

Our cat Dudley is a rescue cat. He spent the first several months of his life struggling to survive on the streets of New York, and when his mother and siblings were rescued, he was the last of his litter to be adopted. (Hard to understand, because he’s a charming little guy.)

Perhaps as a result, Dudley has a strong need to control his environment. He has firm beliefs about the proper time to be fed, and when I come home from work he is sure to remind Jenn so she can greet me at the door.

Early in his stay with us, he set up what we refer to as his apartment, between the wall and the head of the bed. There he can retreat, sheltered by a pillow, when he needs some personal space. To furnish the place, he borrowed some items, including my watch, some pens, and Jenn’s MP3 player. Extra pens he would stow under the rug in the living room, neatly lined up.

Now that he’s more comfortable, Dudley has become less of a kleptomaniac. But his controlling tendencies are still obvious from the way he handles his toys. In the corner of the bedroom behind the footlockers, just behind his perch, Dudley has arranged three of his balls in perfect alignment and in order of size.