This is Frankenstein, aptly named, monster cat extraordinaire. He is an eight month old tuxedo cat. He is the worst cat ever. EVER. He pounces, scampers, claws, steals French fries, bites toes, spits, jumps, counter surfs, swipes, and – honest to God – DON’T LOOK HIM IN THE EYES. He’s scary. I should know. I once made that grave error in judgement – his pupils are different sizes and I was trying to check them out – and he sprang like a demon from hell directly into my face. Luckily, I had my glasses on that day, or there would be two of us with different sized pupils.
How did we end up with Frankenstein? Emily-Jane suddenly lost her most beloved little orange tabby cat named Binx in July. He had emergency surgery to remove some bladder stones, came out of surgery, then died in recovery. It was both tragic and heart wrenching. He was spicy but sweet. By the end of the month, we jaunted out to the SPCA looking for a new best friend and we found Frankenstein. He was reaching out to her between the bars of the cage, gently and playfully swatting her fingers, meowing plaintively at her, calling her like a siren from the sea. He was little and cute, with big shiny eyes, like Puss in Boots in “Shrek.” She fell for it. His SPCA name was “Swamp Thing” – terrible name for a cat, right? Em decided on Frankie, and sticking with the monster movie theme already started, joked it would be short for Frankenstein. Frankenstein stuck. Then became Frankenstein King of Chaos, which is actually more appropriate. (You can find him on Instagram as Frankenstein_king.of.chaos.)
Being the youngest of our three cats, we though the other two, particularly Eloise, resident grouchy old lady, would teach Frankenstein some cat manners, and he would fall in line. No, we were wrong about that. Maybe Jake – the 16 pound tom cat? Nope, not a chance. We thought Utah, the seventy-five pound German Shorthair might shake him up a bit. He jumped from the counter and rode that dog like a bitch. Poor little Bear is terrified of him. She’s the smart one here. What is he afraid of? Nothing. Not a damn thing. Not the vacuum. Not the water bottle. (Not that he likes it, it just doesn’t persuade him to stop whatever he’s doing and knock it off.) NOTHING. He’s a beast, man. A total apex predator in a tiny kind-of kitten body.
You can train a dog. You can take him to puppy classes, clicker train him, bribe him with treats, and he’s dissuaded by the almighty squirt bottle. They’ll “sit,” “stay,” “down” – at least most of the time, even SOME of the time – give you a paw, stay off the furniture, roll over, and some are even willing to not pull on a leash, ( we are not talking about my dogs here,) but I don’t know if you can train a cat, at least I’ve never heard of one – cats are just…well, they’re cats. To be trained, they have to want to please you, or be willing to comply at the least. They have to give a fuck. Frankenstein does not. He gives not one single fuck. He truly is the King of Chaos.
Mom of Mayhem 