Revenge of the Couch

Cats are notorious for getting stuck in trees. I never thought I’d be that cat, that pathetically stereotypical cat but here I am. Stuck. In a tree. I’d so much rather be curled up in my human’s lap while she reads a book on the sofa, sips her tea, and occasionally gives me scritches behind my ears. Not an option right now. And not because I’m up this tree.

Call me Ishmael. Not my real name. (You think I’m gonna use that in this embarrassing situation? But I’ll stop wasting time, cuz that’s running out. Here’s the who, what, where, when. Bast help me if I know the why though.

Picture this: All Hollows Eve (Halloween, as it’s generally known). All the trick-and-treaters are long gone home. It’s coming up on 11:11pm (always a peculiar time of night though not quite the witching hour) associated with wishing, angels, spiritual awakenings, and — in this case — the ability to manifest your thoughts into reality. Me and my human were chilling on that aforementioned couch when she looks up from her book and says to me, “Hey, kitty, the sidekick in this book is a talking peppermill. Can you believe that? The main character casts a spell on it because they’re lonely and want company. Why didn’t they just get themselves a cat?”

She pauses as she scratches me right in the sweet spot under my chin, before going on. “I wonder if inanimate objects have feelings. Like this couch we’re on. Does it like making us comfy or does it resent being sat upon?” Then she says, at 11: 11 on the dot, “Speak up Mr. Couch! Tell us what you really think.”

The couch lurches and — bam — she’s tossed onto the floor. I, of course, have already jumped off her lap, not meaning to dig into her thigh with my claws, but: Cat. Instincts. Reflex. I feel bad, but what are you gonna do? Anyhoo, she cries “ow” and is busy rubbing her leg, so she doesn’t notice the erstwhile divan has puffed itself up, is somehow frowning by scrunching up its cushion tops, and looks ready to eat her directly.

Let’s get outta here! I yowl at her, but no matter how much they love us or how hard they try, humans stink at understanding Felynese and she ignores me. That dastardly davenport’s growing taller by the second. It looms over her as she rolls onto her knees, one hand rubbing her backside where it hit the hardwood floor. I yowl louder, but only get an “oh, hush up” for my effort to warn her of impending upholstered doom. She reaches for the reading glasses that were knocked off her face and the stupid book that engendered this unnatural incident. She remains oblivious to the angry, overstuffed monster that her untimely thoughts have brought to life.

“Merow, e-errow!” I cry, which given my inflection and enunciation translate in English to Dr. Frankenstein’s cry of “It’s alive!” This is lost on her, but the couch seems to take offense, apparently recognizing the reference. I shouldn’t be surprised as it has been sitting there beneath us as we watched the classic Karloff film earlier tonight. I don’t know how, but it looks mad, out for revenge. Truth be told, I have used it as a scratching post on a regular basis. But not fair taking that out on my human. Time for drastic action.

I jump down from my perch atop the bookcase to which I’d retreated, leap over my human, and attack. If she hadn’t trimmed my claws yesterday, they would serve better as weapons, but they provide effective enough traction for me to traverse the seat cushions and work my way up the back. This is quite a feat considering the couch shifts ominously side to side, its stubby legs stomping on the floor like the hoofs of a bull getting ready to charge, trying to throw me off.

Finally, the racket makes her look up. Not good as it turns out. She freezes, mouth gaping, fingers spasming, book and glasses dropping to the floor. But then, hallelujah, she jolts into action and scrambles back crablike, spins around, pushes up to her feet, and is on the run out of the living room, into the hall. My cue to break off my futile attack and try to save myself.

In stocking feet, she slips and slides on the wood flooring. I race behind her having the same problem with traction and end up slamming into her legs. She stumbles, but catches her balance, and scoops me up in her arms. Clomp, clomp, clomp comes our nemesis from behind. Slowly we turn, as the old vaudeville bit goes, but it’s the creepy couch coming at us step by step. Its curved Chesterfield arms bulge, morphing into muscular battering rams that it uses to shoulder aside lamps, end tables, and the bookcase on which I’d been perched. Books spill down, not impeding its advance but distracting my human from her healthy flight instinct. She moans in despair as her lovingly collected tomes tumble and their pages are ripped and crumpled.

Shall I yowl again? Well aware of her love for books, I think it better to speak to her distress, so softly murping in sympathy, I nudge her cheek gently with my head. Her gaze turns to me. I stare into her eyes trying to telepathically infuse her with the message: No time to waste! Let’s get the hell out of here! Telepathy’s never worked before, but I thought it worth a try. And was wrong. I must spur her into action. Literally.

I latch my front paws on her arm, dig my claws in, and bound out of her arms over her shoulder landing on the staircase. I don’t mean for us to go up the stairs (the front door is right there on our opposite side), but she hits the bottom step running.

Okay. Up it is then. But we’ve ascended only halfway to the second floor when the lumbering loveseat follows in our wake and (I’m sure you’ve guessed it), it is not a good fit. The banister cracks as it squeezes onto the first step leaning to one side. Crunch. A few spindles detach and clatter to the floor. Lurch to the other side. Thud. It’s punched a hole in the wall, which gives us a bit of time because it gets one of its massive arms stuck in the jagged laths and crumbling plaster. (It’s an old house, so no drywall.)

I yowl again, my voice loud and echoing down from the landing. This time the warning has the desired effect and my human skedaddles up the rest of the steps to join me. Thank goodness, because just as she reaches me, the weight of the sofa proves too much and the staircase collapses. (That’s gonna cost in repairs, but not our top concern right now.) The landing sags, then tilts at a steep angle. I jump to the nearby window sill; she goes sliding off, slowing her fall by grabbing at dangling treads and the broken handrail, and lands in a heap on the floor not three feet away from the demonic divan. The rest of the stairs breaks into pieces and the pieces rain down over her. And…

…I’m ashamed to say this is when my scaredy-cat gene kicks in. Instead of jumping into the fray, I jump out the window.

The weather’s been warm this October and we like to keep the windows open as long as fall allows, not looking forward to the necessity of closing things up tight for winter. This particular window is small, without a screen, and a pain to open. It can be forced open only partway, but we love it — she for its decorative value; me for the deep windowsill and the sun that hits it in late afternoons. Normally I wouldn’t think of trying to squeeze through to the outside. It’s a long drop down to the ground from here. There is a tree nearby, but the closest branch has aways looked miles away to me. Now I find that panic evidently gives one super-feline strength and the ability to fly. I‘m outside. I’ve landed on that branch. And I can’t for the life of me figure out how to get down.

I’m on a level with that second-floor window, but there’s no chance of jumping back through the narrow opening. I’d have to jump down to the first floor once inside anyway. Out here, it’s an equally daunting dilemma. There are no branches lower than this one, just trunk all the way down. Stupid tree.

But my human needs me. If she’s still alive. I don’t want to think about the alternative. She doesn’t have nine lives. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure I do either. But maybe, maybe, I need to take a gamble on that old-wives tale. By the way, who are those old wives? And why is it that we even think about taking advice from them? Superstition, right? Cultural folklore, not to be trusted, am I right? Even if I take the chance and attempt this impossible leap to the ground, then what? I’d have to get back into the house and…scratch that.

The front door bursts open. My human runs out over the threshold and down the front steps. She’s limping and weeping and after a few feet into the yard she stumbles to the ground. If only she had that phone of hers she could call for help. Right. That’d be a great conversation: “What is the nature of your emergency?” “My couch is trying to kill me.” Best case scenario: they’d send out an ambulance to take her in for psychiatric evaluation, which wouldn’t help me any, but it would get her out of danger though I might become the main target. And who knows if that crazed couch would be satisfied with taking revenge on me alone? It might follow her to the psych ward or emergency room or wherever and take out whoever got in its way.

My imagination’s running wild with horrible possibilities, but my human, my lovely fragile human doesn’t seem to be thinking at all. Why isn’t she screaming for help? Trying to get up again or dragging herself across the lawn if she can’t get up? Is it all up to me, the scaredy cat in the tree? Pull yourself together, Ishmael, I say. (Again: not my real name.) I get ready to let loose a steady stream of meows loud enough to wake the neighbors, but my voice choaks off on the very first one because: Here. Comes. The couch.

I hiss.

The satanic sofa pays no attention but my human, she hears and looks up at me.

“Good. You’re safe. Stay there,” she says, her voice faint, trembling.

I think she must be in shock otherwise why is she wasting time? She can’t be more concerned about me than her own safety. Can she? I mean, we get along okay. She calls me the best kitty in the world when I’m curled up in her lap, quietly dozing. But when I dash around the house and bound onto the kitchen table, maybe knocking over a vase or breaking a plate (a small price to pay for having fun, not to mention exercising is the keystone of good health), she does tend to swear and yell. Yeah, we have our differences. Now, though, her eyes are filled with love. And maybe…goodbye? Nope. Not if I have any say about it.

I clear my throat (sounding like I’m hacking up a hair ball) to yowl and meow in the loudest voice I can manage. She looks distressed — for me. Oiy. But fine because it’s gotten her up on her feet and moving toward the tree, toward the trunk, which is large and will at least be a little something to put between her and the couch.

So I keep up my racket as the couch lumbers after her, all the while with one question chasing its tail inside my head: how do you stop a piece of feral furniture? I catch sight of the jack-o-lanterns she’s carved and set out along the walkway heading up to the front door. They’re old school: real pumpkins, real candles inside, some of them still burning. And, I’m thinking, if fire bad for Dr. Frankenstein’s creation, fire might be good for us.

If I could jump onto the couch, distract it, so she could grab a candle and set the thing on fire…and how, oh, how, do I get her to figure that out? She couldn’t have wished for me to be able to talk to her, manifested that idea at 11:11 instead of bringing the broody, bitchy, bloodthirsty sofa to life? All the same, I’ve got to try, got to act fast.

Here goes one of those nine lives I think as I scramble partway down the trunk, then fall the rest of the way rolling head over tail onto the ground. I quickly rise to all four paws with that typical feline attitude of What? I meant to do that. (Hey, I’ll take klutzy over dead any day.)

Over to the line of pumpkins I go and bat off the top of one with my paw. I stick my face inside, singe a whisker on the candle flame, yowl, pull back, and then look her way. Yeah. She’s not getting it. I go through the whole thing again. And again. And I’m running out of whiskers here! Meanwhile Mr. Creepy Couch has come to a standstill undecided who to go after first, me or my human. Evidently, she looks like the easy target because it moves her way. So, here goes another life. What am I down to now? Time for another divan attack.

I scratch and claw my way up and over the hulking beast, ripping fabric, drawing stuffing — not as satisfying as drawing blood, but what more can you do in a situation like this? I jump off, dive underneath it and squeeze between its stubby wooden legs, and in its clumsy effort to stomp on me, it topples over right on top of one of the jack-o-lanterns, which goes squish. The candle snuffed out though, so no damage done. But another one has gone wobbling onto its side, cracks open, and a gust of wind sends a couple of fallen leaves to the candle flame. They catch fire, so I race over and yowl my head off.

Two blocks over, the Presbyterian church’s bell is chiming twelve o’clock, so maybe it’s witching hour magic or maybe I’m going crazy, but I hear my yowls turned to words and I’m yelling, “Fire! Fire! Light it on fire!”

My human finally takes action, rushes over, picks up the candle and throws it at the couch.

It bounces off and rolls to the ground.

Okay. Anticlimactic. So, its not that easy. But now she gets it and three pillaged jack-o-lantern candles later, the sofa’s smoking and finally goes up in flames. The last bell of midnight tolls. The couch goes quiet except for the crackling of the fire eating its way through its cushions. No more movement. No more threat. We’ve defeated it. Or maybe the strange manifestation would have ended at the stroke of twelve anyway like something out of a bad fairytale. Man, supernatural events sure take it out of you. I rarely wax so philosophical.

Deep in my thoughts, I nearly jump out of my skin as something grabs me from behind. It’s her, my human, scooping me up in her arms to hold me tight. She walks to the tree, lowers herself to the grass to sit with her back against the trunk. The neighbors haven’t called the fire department. Guess they think we must have a fire pit or something totally not unusual or dangerous. Little do they know.

We keep watch on the fire until the couch burns down to ashes. All the while she’s stroking my head, scratching me behind my ears. I’ll be embarrassed to the end of my days about getting stuck up in the tree. And I’m down two lives with only seven to go, but hey. Worth it.