It’s taken six months but Sweetie Pie has finally shown her true colors. Instead of the shy, gentle and endearing kitty that I was led to believe she was – and as her name implies – she has revealed her self to be Panthera, Dominatrix.
In keeping with the cunning nature of things feline, this volte face was not accomplished in a day but in the tiniest of increments that, had I been more alert and less inclined to indulge, would have resulted in a different state of affairs than I am experiencing today.
Looking back I can now see undeniable evidence that in my infatuation I denied. It all started with a toss of the head here, a nose in the air there. Now cognizant of my weakness, I admit I was seduced by the volume of her purrs and the softest of her fur.
For weeks after her arrival, she was pitifully grateful for the slightest touch, the lightest petting. I welcomed her to my lap, said those sweet silly things one says to the object of one’s affections. Now it is Sweetie Pie who is doing the talking, if only with her laser beam, topaz eyes.
She is saying, “Move over. I want to lie down,” and “Stop reading. I want petted.” “A little to the left and under the chin – and don’t touch my feet!” When her wishes are not strictly and immediately obeyed, a little nip or gnaw of her pearly whites keep me in line.
Her desires now dominate the schedule for the day and as the sun rises earlier and earlier, my long relaxing lie-ins are a thing of the past. Since Sweetie Pie sleeps in the middle of the bed, I spend a semi-comfortable night scissoring my legs around her to avoid disturbing her rest. Feet under covers are no longer safe from sharp-toothed pounces.
At the first tweet of a bird, she is awake and lumbers up to my pillow. She wraps herself, turban-like, around the top of my head. If the body heat and the purring does not drag me from dreamland, she has recently taken to gently gnawing on my forehead or kneading my hair with her claws. Both are effective in getting my attention and cooperation.
I stagger out to the kitchen and before making my toast and cup of coffee, I tend to her needs with alacrity. Where once I would have said, “If you don’t like dry cat food, don’t eat it” when she sniffed the bowl and narrowed her eyes, I now respond by saying, “I’ll ask the deli to slice the turkey thinner next time.”
Yes, this amber-eyes goddess has embodied and is employing the powers of her spiritual predecessor, Sekhmet, warrior goddess of the Egyptians whose breath created the desert and who was given titles such as the (One) Before Whom Evil Trembles, the Mistress of Dread, and the Lady of Slaughter.
Yes, this is my little Sweetie Pie, She Who Must Be Obeyed.