But inside?<\/p>\n
A heart of darkness.<\/p>\n
Dizzy, our Maine Coon cat, was a year old when I began to wonder if she might be lonely. \u201cWhat do you think she does all day when no one is around?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s a cat<\/em>,\u201d my husband Marc said. \u201cShe\u2019s fine.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe needs a friend,\u201d I insisted. We adored Dizzy. Her charming chirps and trills. Her languorous looks. People always remarked on her beauty. \u201cLet\u2019s get another one who looks just like her.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIf you\u2019re looking for a lap cat, this one\u2019s a honey,\u201d said Mrs. Klase, Dizzy\u2019s breeder, days later.\u00a0 She placed a tiny tortoise shell tabby in my arms. \u201cI call her Funny Face.\u201d One side of her face was the color of cream; the other, chocolate. A yin-yang cat.\u00a0 She nestled against me and purred loudly.<\/p>\n \u201cShe is<\/em> sweet,\u201d I agreed. \u201cBut do you have any silver ones like Dizzy?\u201d<\/p>\n She did. A seraglio of long haired kittens, all looking as if they were wearing furry harem pants. Jonathan played with Funny Face while Mrs. Klase fetched a silver brother\/sister pair.<\/p>\n \u201cI want this<\/em> one, Mom,\u201d Jonathan said, an iron grip on Funny Face.<\/p>\n But I couldn\u2019t let go of the idea.<\/p>\n \u201cHow would you like to take home two?\u201d<\/p>\n His grin was huge. \u201cReally?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n We spent twenty minutes playing with the silver siblings. The boy was friendly and adventuresome. His sister wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n \u201cTake the girl. I don\u2019t want a male cat,\u201d Marc whispered.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI can\u2019t stand the thought of having to get him \u2018fixed.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAre you serious<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n He crossed his legs.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat can you tell me about her personality?\u201d I asked.\u00a0 Mrs. Klase shrugged, noncommital.<\/p>\n We drove home with two kittens. Funny Face, whom we immediately renamed Fudge, and the silver girl we decided to call Daffy. \u201cLike Dizzy and Daffy Dean,\u201d said my husband, the baseball historian.<\/p>\n But Daffy was not a team player.<\/p>\n Dizzy loathed her immediately. She leapt to the back of the sofa and glared, as if to say, what\u2019s this bimbo doing here?<\/em><\/p>\n Fudge slunk away; Daffy stood her ground, growling. After much hissing and swatting,\u00a0 they reached a clawed truce.<\/p>\n She was testy as a teenager, and as schizoid as Sybil. One moment she\u2019d play the cat coquette, all fun and flirty, inviting you to play. Then she\u2019d rear back, grooming her fur frantically as if to erase any trace of human scent.\u00a0 She\u2019d get high licking the glue off packing tape; she\u2019d\u00a0 roll around ecstatically on top of a damp peppermint teabag.\u00a0 If you called her name, she\u2019d stare impassively. Gorgeous but vacuous. The Paris Hilton of cats.<\/p>\n \u201cDoes she seem a little off to you?\u201d I asked Marc.<\/p>\n A year later, when we visited the Cat Show, Mrs. Klase was selling two smokey grey kittens. Jonathan reached for the feather tickler.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t fall in love,\u201d I warned.<\/p>\n \u201cToo late, Mom,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n That\u2019s how Moxie came home with us.<\/p>\n Daffy was not amused.\u00a0 She expressed her displeasure by leaving little piles of poop in odd places. Beside the basement door. Beneath the playroom window. Behind the litter box. She was sneaky; we never saw her do it. We bought new litter boxes. Different brands of litter. Nothing helped.<\/p>\n But Daffy had a champion: Shana, the behavioral therapist who works with our autistic son Mickey.<\/p>\n \u201cI adore<\/em> her!\u201d Shana gushed.\u00a0 \u201cAll your cats are beautiful, but this one is Miss America. I\u2019d take her in a heartbeat.\u201d\u00a0 She squeezed Daffy, who squawked crossly. \u201cDoes that sound shallow?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s a mistake to pick pets for their looks,\u201d I said. The rueful voice of experience.<\/p>\n \u201cPlease can I have another kitten?\u201d\u00a0 Mickey asked.<\/p>\n In a final, fatal lapse in judgment, we brought home another cat. Mickey named her Ketzel \u2013 Yiddish for \u201ckitten.\u201d We quarantined her, as the vet suggested,\u00a0 then slowly introduced her to the rest of our feline family.<\/p>\n Daffy was really <\/em>not amused.<\/p>\n We found our fluffy towels mysteriously pulled off the bathroom towel bars, with yellow puddles pooling in them. Then puddles appeared everywhere. Mickey\u2019s book shelves. Jonathan\u2019s bed. Marc\u2019s desk. The living room sofa.<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe it\u2019s a kidney problem,\u201d I worried. \u201cLet\u2019s take her to the vet.\u201d<\/p>\n $775 dollar\u2019s worth later, the vet said, \u201cClean as a whistle.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou have to get rid of her,\u201d my mother in law said.<\/p>\n \u201cI can\u2019t. She\u2019s family.\u201d<\/p>\n
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<\/a>Instead, I bought a special ultraviolet light like the ones forensic experts use on cop shows to reveal crime stains.\u00a0 It was worse than we thought. The house was a feline latrine. Daffy had marked nearly every piece of upholstered furniture we owned.<\/p>\n