Oliver Learns to Fist Bump

We have two cats, and for some reason our parents refuse to believe they’ve got grandchildren from us. But, to prove our cats are as good as kids, there is this: We have taught Oliver to fist bump.

Back up. We found Oliver in a parking garage in Orlando the December before we got married. It was crazy-cold, especially for Florida, and here’s this little orange kitty roaming around the parking garage. My roommate Samie, my future-sister-in-law Becki, Jesse, and his roomie Scott were there, and some others; we’d been filming a little movie we’d come up with (oh, college). We were on our way to Titusville for more filming.

And here’s this little spunky guy meowing, and I say, “Hi there, kitty!” or something like that, you know, what you say to cute little cats you see in parking garages, and then he just runs up to me and looks at me like, I’m yours. And well, what are you to do? I picked him up. I don’t normally pick up cats I see running loose in cities. But this one just seemed like one to pick up. So I did. And, then I couldn’t just put him down, couldn’t just leave him to freeze to death out there all alone. We asked the parking garage attendants whether he belonged to anyone, and after some confusion, off we went, cat in tow.

My parents kept him until Jesse and I got married. We both lived in college apartments that didn’t allow pets. Sometimes I’d sneak Oliver into my apartment for the weekend. Marianne called him “Puppy.” She doesn’t like cats. But she liked this one. And he followed her like a pup does. We still call him that sometimes.

There is something else you should know about Oliver. He has issues. He’s a bit, shall we say, emotionally needy. Namely, he can’t stand it if we 1. are sleeping past midnight, and 2. fail to feed him on demand (which would be around the clock). We keep baby-locks on our pantry and where we keep the trash. He has to sleep in the laundry room or we will be woken up multiple times. (My theory is that his last owners died in their sleep, and he’s been scarred for life.)

Once, I came home from grocery shopping. We were living in a third-floor apartment, and it took me two or three trips to get all the groceries inside. On my last trip, I heard a rustling in the kitchen, and when I got in there I saw Oliver, with his face in a loaf of bread, tearing it apart. He had eaten through the plastic and was enjoying some extra carbs. Later that year, Jesse’s parents were visiting and had brought some doughnuts with them from the hotel. I was still in the shower when I heard “No! Oliver, no!” and people running through the hall. He’d snagged a doughnut and run under the bed with it.

He’s eaten the fingers off of rubber gloves, the petals off roses, and the corners off books. He’s torn up carpet and destroyed molding around doors.

In case you’re wondering why we’ve kept him, there’s this: He’s got these enormous, adorable green eyes, and when he’s not hungry he’ll sit in your lap and purr like you’re the best person on earth. And, he learns tricks. He can sit, spin around, and jump. And, now, fist bump. Well, the best version of a fist bump that a cat without opposable thumbs can do. He can’t make an actual fist, but still, it’s rather cute.

And as much as it drives me crazy when he eats what I was going to give Jesse for lunch (today), I admire his spirit. He’s a little wild, but he’s smart. He’s lived on the streets; he’s markedly different from little mild-mannered Gracie, who has lived inside since she was about the size of a guinea pig. It’s that edginess that makes him who he is, and when you look at him, you know he’s always thinking, whether it’s about how to circumvent our pantry-protections, or about comfortable your lap is.