A conversation this evening has left me running through a memory.
Just over ten years ago I adopted a kitten. His name was Simon. He was a wee thing. During our first week together, however, there were problems.
When I went to sleep at night, he would attack my feet beneath the covers. He was able to hear and pounce upon the slightest movement of my toes. Suddenly I would be ripped from whatever hopefully x-rated dream I was having into the realities of raising a kitten.
My first attempt to address this was to close the door to my bedroom. He would be left the rest of the apartment, including the litterbox and foodening areas. “I’ll just close the door,” I said. “Then he can’t make war upon my frigid appendages.”
So it came to pass that he sat outside of my bedroom door, mewling and meowing, crying and whining. It was a heartbreaking sound, and one I could not stomach for long. So the door was opened again, and my feet were butchered.
The next night, however, I discovered a cure. I had a small water bottle with a spritzer. I had been advised to use small water squirts as behavioral keys. Simon understood the water bottle.
So what I did was this: I left the door to my bedroom open but I set the water bottle down on the floor in the doorway, nozzle outwards. The poor cat did not approach the door (and thus did not sound off outside). I’m not sure if this was because he was afraid of the bottle or if he could simply see the interior of my room.
Regardless, I was able to sleep, and after a few nights of this routine we had an understanding: he would let my feet live, and I wouldn’t spritz him with water if he tried to kill them.
Today, in this time, I regret doing that.
I wish I had let him attack my feet more.