Training a cat is like negotiating with a tiny, fur-covered philosopher—full of contradictions, occasional triumphs, and endless patience-testing moments. My Siamese, Mochi, embodies this perfectly. After weeks of dedicated training, she’s finally mastered the “high five”… but only when bribed with treats. Add in a post-sterilization saga involving an escape artist’s hatred of the Elizabeth collar, and you’ve got a comedy of errors that’s equal parts frustrating and heartwarming.
The Treat-Driven Triumph: Mastering the High Five
Let’s start with the “success” story. For weeks, I’d dreamed of a well-trained cat who’d greet me with a dainty paw raise. Reality? Mochi views training as a transaction: “Show me the snacks, human, and we’ll talk.”
The process went like this:
Treat Temptation: Wave a freeze-dried chicken treat in front of her nose.
Paw Prodding: Gently lift her paw toward my hand, saying “high five!”
Reward Ritual: Deliver the treat immediately, followed by enthusiastic praise.
After 14 days of this routine (and a small fortune in treats), she finally connected the dots. Now, at the mere jingle of the treat bag, her paw shoots up like a tiny soldier saluting. “No love without liver,” her eyes seem to say.
But let’s be real: Without treats, she’ll stare at my outstretched hand like I’m offering a lemon. “You think I do this for free?” her blank stare implies.
The Sterilization Saga: Drama at the Vet
When the day came for Mochi’s sterilization, I braced for a calm, post-surgery recovery. Spoiler: Nothing about Mochi is calm.
Emerging from anesthesia, she looked like a fuzzy drunkard—stumbling sideways, bumping into walls, and blinking slowly like she’d just woken from a decade-long nap. My heart melted at the sight of her “teary” eyes… until the vet clarified it was just eye ointment. “Cats don’t cry, but they do make great drama queens,” the vet chuckled.
Refusing to stay at the clinic (she’d stopped eating as soon as we arrived), I took her home, armed with pain meds and a strict “no jumping” order. The first challenge: the Elizabeth collar, aka the “cone of shame.”
The Cone Wars: A Battle of Wills
Putting the cone on was a 5-minute wrestling match involving scratches, hisses, and a lot of “Mochi, please just cooperate!” Once on, she stood like a statue, tail flicking in fury. “How dare you reduce me to a lampshade?” her posture screamed.
But the real drama started at 1:30 a.m. I awoke to the sound of rustling screen window. There, in the moonlight, was Mochi—cone still on—clinging to the window screen like a furry Spider-Man, her hind legs dangling precariously.
“NOPE,” I shouted, lunging to rescue her. She responded by squirming free, darting under the bed, and emerging 10 minutes later with the cone completely off. How? I’ll never know. It was like watching Houdini in a fur coat.
The Post-Surgery Diet: Royalty vs. Peasants
My mom, ever the nurturer, decided Mochi needed “healing soup.” Thus began a daily ritual of boiling fish for the cat while I subsisted on microwave meals. “She needs protein,” Mom insisted, ladling out a bowl of fragrant dried fish soup into Mochi’s fancy ceramic dish.
Mochi, now fully recovered, laps up the soup like a queen, while I stare at my instant noodles. “Priorities,” I sigh, scratching her ear as she purrs contentedly.
The Aftermath: Subtle Changes and Unchanging Spirit
Did sterilization mellow Mochi? Sort of. Her yowls are now more “indignant mews” than “siren wails,” but her energy remains undiminished. She still sprints up the stairs at 2 a.m., still steals my hair ties, and still demands treats like a tiny drill sergeant.
The biggest lesson? Cats are individuals, and no surgery or training can fully alter their essence. Mochi will always be a stubborn, treat-obsessed escape artist—and I wouldn’t have her any other way.
A Love Letter to the Chaos
To Mochi, the cat who turns every routine into an adventure: thank you. Thank you for teaching me that “success” in cat training means celebrating small wins (even if they’re bribe-driven). Thank you for proving that post-surgery recovery is just another stage for your dramatic talents. And thank you for reminding me that a cat’s spirit is unbreakable—even by a cone, a vet visit, or a midnight window-climbing escapade.
Here’s to many more years of wiggly paws, stolen snacks, and the beautiful, unpredictable journey of loving a cat who’s perfectly, unapologetically herself.
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