Hissy Fitz

“Hissy! I’m home!” Georgie yells as she bursts through the front door.

I like Georgie. I do. I’ve known her since she was born, more than eight years ago, when I was just a kitten. I was there when she smiled for the first time, when she first sat up by herself, when she said her first word (
meow
), and when she took her first step. We were about the same size then. She has grown much larger since, larger than me, and much, much noisier. But I am still older. I will always be older.

My question is, After all we’ve been through together, why does she still treat me like a kitten?

Why, when we’ve known each other so long, does she insist on waking me from my all-important sleep?

A moment ago, I was happily napping on the windowsill in the sunshine, dreaming I was flying through the air, catching sparrows in my claws. Now I’m awake. Georgie woke me.

I wouldn’t do that to her.

I open one eye.

She presses her face into my soft, silver-blue fur. “Oh, how I missed you, little Hissy!” she squeals too near my ear.

I open my other eye, and growl:

Grrrrrrrrrr!

“And you missed me, too! Awww!”

Georgie can’t always tell the difference between a growl and a purr.

I bare my claws, sink them into the windowsill, and begin to wriggle free. She senses that I’m trying to get away and squeezes tighter. I raise my hackles and let out a long hiss.

Hssssssssss!

It does the trick. Georgie lets go of me and plops down on the bench beneath the window.

“You know what happened at school today?” she asks.

I do not.

“Ethan was making towers with his base ten blocks.”

She looked shocked. I have no idea what base ten blocks are, but she gives me little scratches between my ears as she talks — which I quite enjoy — so I purr my encouragement:
Prrrrrrrrrr!

It’s simple. I hiss when she does something I don’t like; I purr when she does something I like. Why doesn’t she learn?

“Of course, I told him he shouldn’t, but he said he should, so I said, ‘I mean, you’re not
supposed
to,’ but he did it anyway!”

I tip my head upward, trying to guide her hand to my cheeks. I love having my cheeks stroked, a fact I’ve tried to impress upon her for years. She slides her hand down my neck, then glides it over my back toward my tail. This is not what I want. I do not like her near my tail. She has a habit of weaving it through her fingers, which tugs.

“Ms. Seven saw him and asked him to take the towers apart. They’re for doing math, not for building towers, you know.”

I did not.

She slumps backward onto the bench’s plump throw pillows. I slip my tail from her grasp, jump down from the sill, and rub my cheeks against her arm. Sometimes I have to do everything myself.

She gives a big yawn, stretching her arms out to her side. Her eyelids lower. She often takes a nap after school. In my opinion, human beings do not nap enough, especially the little ones. All that
racing around, hopping, and squawking would certainly wear me out. Children should take more naps than cats do.

I curl up beside her. She smiles sleepily. She likes when I nap with her. So do I. As I said, I like Georgie. I also like napping, and I almost never get enough sleep. It’s because I live in this house, with the noisy Fitz family, with this noisy, clueless girl.

Georgie’s breathing slows and deepens. Just like that, she’s out. I’m almost there, too, until …

“Hissy cat!” Zeb yells as he races through the door, his fists pumping, his chin forward. Zeb is one of Georgie’s three-year-old brothers. The untamed one. As usual, he’s looking for trouble.

I’m not, though I can bring it when necessary.

It’s necessary.

Hsssssssss!
I say.

I spring from Georgie’s side and cross the room in three quick bounds. My destination is the big square bed in the master bedroom. Zeb can’t get at me when I’m under it.

“I wouldn’t chase the cat, Zeb,” says Georgie’s dad. He comes in behind his son, holding the hand of his other one. “Hissy doesn’t like it.”

He’s right, Hissy doesn’t, but Zeb doesn’t listen to his dad.

I hiss again as I exit the room —
Hssssssssss
! — then fly up the stairs. Down the hall, I duck into
the master bedroom, where I dive under the big square bed.

Zeb clambers up the stairs. “Cat!” he cries. “Hissy cat! Where ar-r-r-re you?”

He toddles into the room. He knows my hiding places.

Hssssssssss!
I say again. He really can’t take a hint. He’s worse than Georgie.

He peeks under the bed. “There you are, Hissy cat. Come here. Come on.”

Is he kidding?

When I don’t come out, he climbs onto the bed and starts hopping up and down. He hiccups my name each time he lands.

I lay my snout on my paws. It’s no wonder I have trouble sleeping in this house.

Light footsteps skip up the stairs, then Abe steps into the doorway. The other twin. He’s wearing his stuffed-rabbit puppet, Medium Sad Guy, on his hand. Its long silver ears dangle almost to the floor. Abe’s head tilts up and down in time with his brother’s bouncing.

Abe is a nice, quiet boy, who never wakes me or chases me or jumps up and down on my head. Are all human twins so opposite?