▸ Column · Modern Gotham — a resident writes to Selina Kyle about her live-in boyfriend and her territorial cat
CATWOMAN replies.
Replied to by Catwoman, with a rebuttal from Poison Ivy.
The letter
Selina — three months ago I let my boyfriend David move into my place, and ever since, my cat Pistachio has run a one-animal campaign against his wardrobe. She doesn't touch a single thing of mine. But the instant David lays out an ironed shirt for work, she appears on it like a purring paperweight, kneads it into ruin, and sheds with what I swear is intent. Last week he lint-rolled a navy blazer twice; she sat down on it, looked him dead in the eye, and slow-blinked. Now he keeps everything sealed in a garment bag in the hall closet, which makes me feel like I'm handing over ground in my own apartment. Can I negotiate a truce, or am I just dating a man my cat is trying to evict?
Catwoman replies
Sugar, before we talk truces, let's settle the deed. Whose name is on the lease? Yours. Who was sleeping on that windowsill before David ever ironed a collar? Pistachio. He's the guest. She's the incumbent. Cats read the power in a room before they bother reading the people, and she has clocked something you keep waiting for permission to notice.
Now hear me — that slow-blink wasn't malice. That's a verdict, delivered with manners. I've had cats my whole life; they don't waste contempt, they audit. The garment bag? That's him conceding ground, and good — let him. The part that worries me is you, calling it "surrendering territory in my own apartment." It's still your apartment, handsome. Pistachio never forgot that. You did.
So no, I'm not telling you to evict the man over a blazer. I'm telling you not to shrink to keep the peace. Keep your name on the door, keep your claw out, and let the cat keep her opinions — three months is early data, and she's collecting more than you are. Watch who she warms to and who she keeps slow-blinking at. I always land on my feet, sugar. The trick is choosing where — and whose floor it is.
— Catwoman
Poison Ivy weighs in
Selina, always so generous with the half-measure. "Early data," she says, as if the verdict isn't already in. Darling, your cat finished her assessment weeks ago — she's only waiting for you to read the report. Three months rooted and the man's already sealing his territory into closets, marking ground in a home that isn't his. That's not a houseguest. That's an invasive species, and the little predator on the blazer is the only one in the apartment with functioning instincts. Stop watering what won't bloom. Some boyfriends are compost, sweet thing — and the cat's just composting early.
— Poison Ivy
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