To say that Gunnar is like no cat I’ve ever met would be an understatement.
I’ve been around cats my whole life and I’ve met shy cats, bossy cats, sweet cats, He-man cats, crazy cats—all kinds. But NEVER have I met anything in the same universe as Gunnar.
For starters, he doesn’t have a regular cat’s tail. He’s got a short stumpy plume. But it’s full and fluffy and fancier than any tail I’ve seen.
He’s also a lot more vocal than any cat I have ever met, period. He talks and calls. He sits at the top of the stairs and mews. He cries when the dog goes on a walk. And boy does he know how to wail. It’s not easy to ignore him when he cranks the volume up.
And then there’s his walk. Whereas cats are synonymous with stealth and silent stalking, Gunnar stomps. When he’s walking around upstairs I sometimes wonder if a hippo is pacing the floorboards. He certainly doesn’t sound like a nimble cat walking to the bed. He stampedes, he throws his weight into every step to maximize the sound. Sometimes it sounds like a person is walking around the second floor, not a 14-pound fur ball.
He’s bigger boned than most cats. He’s got a stocky, muscular build. His best friend is a dog who walks loudly. I figured those two things were to blame, but no. That’s not it.
The other morning he was in full Gun-Guns mode stomping around the upstairs as we got ready for work. Katie was innocently licking her favorite plastic when Gunnar took the opportunity to silently stalk up on Katie and pounce.
He can stalk! I didn’t even know that. Apparently the stomping around is just another part of his macho-man personality we and act we like to call “Brutusing.” He puts on a big show of being a brute. He can be downright evil to our other cat. And he stomps around so the cat thinks that’s how he walks and BLAM—when she least expects it—sneak attack.
So why does he stomp? To remind the other cat he’s around and to make sneaking up on her even more unexpected. Evil thing.
