Catty.

When my sister moved in with us a couple of weeks ago she brought along her cat Xena. Xena is around seven years old and very set in her ways. She’s nearly the direct opposite in demeanor from our cat Tom; she’ll think nothing of swatting at you while you’re feeding her or hissing at you if she doesn’t like your boots.

I’ve always been a cat person (perhaps I was meant to be a lesbian or something) and I have always been able to tame the wildest of the feline beasts. Folks would tell me that their cat hides from everyone but I’d always manage to get them into my arms and perhaps evoke a purr from the whole ordeal.

Xena, on the other hand, hates my guts.

Because Tom doesn’t let along with other cats and Xena isn’t diggin’ the new digs all that much, she is living in the basement. She has quite the set up; sleeping bags to hide in, cat toys to bat about, a litter box that is cleaned daily and several servings of “treats”.

She still hates my guts. She screams and hisses at me every chance she gets and once in a while she’ll come batting at my feet. I once laid down on the floor to get her to cozy up to me and she acted all innocent and then when she got within a foot me she started screaming and hissing and coming at me with her (lack of) claws. I usually speak to her in a stern voice when she does this and she’ll go running up the stairs and into the rafters between the basement and the first story floor.

She just hates me.

I’m not giving up the challenge though. I’ll still make sure she’s well attended to and keep trying to get on her good side until we ship her off to Switzerland with my sister and the baby (my brother-in-law is playing hockey on a Swiss team this season).

But it’s obvious that there is no love lost from Xena to her Uncle J.P.