This is Whisper.
She’s my parents’ cat.
She hates my wife’s and my guts.
Seriously, if we get anywhere near her, she whines, howls, hisses or growls until we move, and if we don’t, her urgency increases.
Even worse, my parents insist, every single time, that “she likes everybody but you” — random people from the neighborhood, relatives, UPS guys. Apparently, if someone came into the house to rob and murder my parents, she’d just chill, but the sight of my wife or me sends her into a tizzy.
Stranger yet … we love cats.
And it’s not like she doesn’t know us. Before my grandmother died, Whisper lived with her, and we used to stay at my grandmother’s when we came to New York.
Not only that, we brought a cat with us. Silly was still alive, and needed shots for his diabetes, so we used to bring him with us. But that didn’t bug Whisper all that much.
Ever since she moved in with my parents, though, she gets livid at the sight of us.
This morning, however, was different.
She growled a little, threw out a hiss or two, but it seemed like her heart wasn’t really in it.
It’s almost sad in a way, that she couldn’t even muster up enough caring to hate us properly.