If Netflix ever runs out of serial killers, cult leaders and hedge fund scammers, they can call my cat. He has all the ingredients for a binge-worthy docuseries: a menacing stare, a flair for drama and a willingness to frame an innocent person for a crime.
That innocent person is me. The crime? Attempted murder.
They say dogs are man’s best friend, but cats are … something else entirely.
It began innocently enough, as many crimes do. On a recent afternoon, I was unloading groceries when Kai, our cat, decided to hop into my open vehicle like a ninja. While I lugged in paper towels and peanut butter, Kai vaulted into the car like he’d been cast as an undercover detective. I shut the car door, unaware I had just set in motion the plotline of “The Time I Almost Cooked the Cat: The Untold Story.”
Hours later, Mr. Wonderful noticed Kai didn’t appear to demand his dinner at the stroke of 6 p.m. He asked me if I had seen the cat — no. He reappeared moments later to ask, “Did you go anywhere today?” Yes. I had barely answered in the affirmative before he was hurrying out to the driveway. There, he opened the car door and found Kai sitting in the driver’s seat like a weary hostage. Kai’s eyes narrowed. His glare said it all: “She tried to cook me alive.” Never mind that the temperature was a fabulous 72 degrees and very survivable, or that he could have easily chosen the wise course and jumped out when the car remained open to unload more groceries. No, in his mind, I had orchestrated an elaborate plot against him. This was obviously worse than the time I wouldn’t let him lick the Thanksgiving turkey.
And here’s where cats are geniuses: They don’t need lawyers or evidence, they just need that look. He waltzed back into the house, tail held high and immediately began spreading his side of the story. Mr. Wonderful got the first report, a melodramatic meow complete with a weak collapse onto the porch rug, like a fainting Victorian damsel. Kai even cracked one eye as he swooned, to gauge his audience’s attention.
I tried to defend myself. “It was an accident!” I protested. “He jumped in on his own!” But cats are master manipulators. He avoided me all evening, sitting with his back turned like a wronged spouse in a silent film. We started referring to him as the victim.
Within hours, my household became the set of a sensational true crime series. The kids texted things like, “Do you think Mom meant to do it?” My husband joked nervously about setting up GoFundMe for “the victim’s recovery.” His treat jar runneth over.
In the court of public opinion, I am guilty. Not guilty-ish. Not guilty with extenuating circumstances. Just guilty. My punishment? Eternal suspicion. Now our adult kids ask, “Mom, did you check the car for prisoners?” Mr. Wonderful refers to me as “the woman who tried to murder our cat.” This confessional column might as well be my community service.
The survivor today
Kai has since made a full recovery and now lives a life of peace and luxury. He has claimed the sunniest chairs, where he often gazes into the distance like a survivor haunted by his past. His bravery in the face of trauma has been inspirational to us all. By this, I mean he learned nothing and has already tried to sneak into the car again, twice.
And me? I was framed. Framed by a creature who weighs 10 pounds and spends half the day licking his own foot. While the case of the cat vs. me has technically been closed, I live every day knowing the truth: If anything mysterious ever happens to Kai, he has a file prepared to pin it on me.
That’s the thing about cats: They don’t just knock things off shelves. They knock your whole life off balance — and then make sure everyone blames you for it.
