The cat always looks angry.

Even when I’m minding my own business, and she pads over to the couch to plunk herself down on my lap – as her fearless sense of ownership often compels her to do when the temperature plummets – her face never betrays the abject disdain she seems to have for my existence.

She’s not hanging around because she likes me. She’s here for the modicum of extra warmth I can provide.

It is an observable fact that despite such proximity, her very countenance pulses with unmistakable foreboding. Between slight purrs, her tail raises and lowers, circling the air and landing alongside my leg with an audible thwap. This is a warning.

If I touch her fur anywhere besides the back of her head, she directs a low growl towards me while simultaneously shifting her weight to allow her nearest set of claws to be ready for engagement.

Whether or not she appreciates the things I do for her … overly-generous deposits of crunchie bits into her bowl every eight to twelve hours.

She puts up with my appearances in her life the same way I tolerate her prickly presence in my house. We don’t have to enjoy all aspects of our interactions to accept and maybe even find some small comfort in the realities of our surroundings.

The reality of my husband’s surroundings often causes his temperature to boil over, especially when he detects the unmistakable scritching of cat claws against a cabinet casement or softer, more muted sounds of them shredding the textiles of the furnishings.

He will shake his head and utter his own loud roar before he wads up some harmless piece of paper – such as a disposable kitchen towel he was using as a napkin or a page of newsprint he will later retrieve to start a fire in the woodstove – to hurl in the cat’s direction

His aim is always shy.

“Why do we harbor such a hateful beast?”

He doesn’t really need to hear my answer.

She is no better or worse than either of us. From the first day we met her, we knew she wouldn’t suffer us fools, either.

In that aspect of her life with us, she has been remarkably consistent. She isn’t vindictive. She doesn’t knock drinkware off the counter. She hasn’t been plotting our demise. She’s not one to cut in front of us as we are walking down the stairs. She’s just moving through our life at her own pace, creating closeness or distance at will with the sudden swipe of a paw.

She’s not like living with an abusive partner.

She’s just a wild animal who loves us in her own way and at four-legged length.

Let her come to you, but make no sudden moves when she arrives.

“I love that it feels like we are part of an elite bomb squad, perpetually trying to diffuse an exploding kitten. Admit it … when she allows you to pet her, you feel like the explosion is all just love and confetti.

Siobhan Connally is a writer and photographer living in the Hudson Valley. Her column about family life appears weekly in print and online.

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