British men are known for being charming, nice and polite. They always say “please” and “thank you” and they hold the door for you. Everybody in the world likes them for that. Lovely.
So when Mr. Brit discovered that I have a cat, he took it upon himself to make her like him and become his best furry friend. “Everybody likes me. I’m very likable” he commented.
Don’t get me wrong: he is very charming and likable. However Miss Furry Ball doesn’t like people much. She barely likes me, and I’m the one who feeds her!
You can imagine Mr. Brit’s disappointment when, after meeting Miss Furry Ball for the first time and using his best charming English techniques, she just turned on her tail and walked away.
He was floored and self-doubting. Maybe he’s one of these people that thinks that if your pet’s lover doesn’t love you then the relationship is all wrong — like it happens in the movies.
Anyway, when British Charm fails, British Stubbornness sets in.
“She is going to love me” he announced triumphantly one day entering my apartment with a little container full of catnip, some cat biscuits and a brush. And love him she did.
Since that very day, Mr. Brit enters my apartment, briefly kisses me just so I know he’s acknowledged my presence, and turns his attention to Miss Furry Ball for a good half hour. My little feline prostitute, in fact, is more than happy to see him, as she associates him with her daily session of brushing, while she sits on her scratching pole, feeding, as she gets three little biscuits and a “You’re a good girl” pat on the back, and spoiling, since each session ends with a daily ration of catnip.
As of now, Miss Furry Ball has drastically changed her well-rooted habits to best accommodate Mr. Brit’s. So for instance, she used to sleep with me on my bed, all cuddled up and with a paw on my belly — now she sleeps next to the door when he’s not around, or on his belly when he stays over. She used to be restless and quite crazy — now she is perfectly tamed and spends half of her day calmly sitting on her scratching pole in purring ecstasy, probably re-living her moments with Mr. Brit in her mind. She used to be independent and quite self-content — now she spends the other half of the day staring at the door with her head slightly tilted and an occasional “meow” waiting for Mr. Brit to come home.
And what’s worse is that the above description is well fitted for Miss Furry Ball’s owner as well. I might suspect he’s adding some sort of love drugs in my water as well. Or was it the British Charm that worked on me?