Man documents his own hilarious descent into madness after his wife's 17-year-old orange cat, who has hated him for years, suddenly decides that he is the chosen human: 'I can tell you: I am slowly going mad'

Author image for Mariel Ruvinsky
Mariel Ruvinsky • Writer and Editor
Sep 4, 2025 9:00 AM EDT

Cats are unpredictable little creatures. We think that every single cat owner knows this. One moment, you are petting your cat, and the next moment, your cat is biting you. One moment you are cuddling with your cat, the next moment, the cat is meowing and complaining as if it wasn't the cat itself who stuck its face in your neck. One moment, things are good, and then… Well, you got the point. But at the end of the day, cats do have patterns, cats have habits. Generally, you can predict their behavior. But not always. 

After four years of living with this cat, you would think that this man and his wife - who had the cat even before meeting him - would be able to predict its behavior, and yet, the little orange fella managed to surprise both of them. He did such an incredible 180 in his behavior that the husband, who was suddenly getting loved by this cat instead of hated by it, started legitimately losing its mind. And documenting it. 

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  • 01

    "I thought my wife’s cat hated me for four years. Now he’s obsessed with me. I have questions."

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  • Listen… right when we first started reading this, we knew we were in for a special treat. You can just tell when someone knows how to write, and this man- yes, he should pursue being an author. Because we were captivated. We needed to know more. 

  • 02
    TLDR: My wife's cat spent four years ignoring me like I was a piece of furniture that owed him money. Then our other cat passed away, and now he's obsessed with me. I have theories, and concerns. CW: Pet loss (mentions of the peaceful passing of two beloved senior pets)
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    So, bit of backstory: In 2020, I moved in with my then-girlfriend (now wife). Along with our shared life came a shared menagerie. I brought my dog, Gemma. She brought two cats: Indy and Pekoe. I had high hopes that the animals would become some quirky Pixar-style blended family. I was a fool.
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  • 04
    Gemma was the sweetest, scruffiest, quietest old mutt you've ever met. The kind of dog who looked like she'd seen things but mostly just wanted a gentle chest rub and a soft place to nap. She loved cats, in a way that felt like she wished they were her pets. I've seen her gently lay down next to cats, with this hopeful look on her face. She never barked. She didn't snuggle, exactly, but she'd lie nearby, always quietly hoping the cats might someday love her back. She was the canine equivalent of
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  • 05
    Indy, one of the cats, was a calico tabby with the emotional range of a bomb about to go off. Chaos incarnate. She hated the move, hated Gemma, hated everything really, except for my wife and, somehow, eventually, me. For the first year I lived there, she refused to come down to the first floor.
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  • 06
    Eventually, she came around to me, but she never stopped treating Gemma like an unholy menace. Even once she started hanging out downstairs, she'd travel across furniture and windowsills like a tiny fluffy assassin avoiding pressure plates, just to avoid setting paw where Gemma might have breathed. Poor Gemma had to give up on her dream of having a cat buddy real fast after getting swatted (undeservedly) two too many times.
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    And then there was Pekoe. Pekoe is a large orange tabby with the emotional resilience of a wet loaf of bread. Anxious, clingy, and - this is important - he had absolutely no time for me. He was a sad fat boy who lived only for my wife. He didn't like me. He tolerated Gemma. He hated cuddles unless they came from his chosen human. If my wife closed her office door, he'd cry like the Romeo understudy in a high school drama class. He'd side-eye me like I was the guy she told him not to worry about.
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  • 08
    So that was our house for years. Gemma trying to just exist peacefully with the d_ng hope the cats might one day accept her. Indy radiating murder vibes or snuggling my head with begrudging affection. Pekoe ignoring me with great enthusiasm. It was an uneasy truce, but it held.
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  • 09
    Two years ago, Gemma passed, peacefully, at 16. We were gutted. A few months later, Indy, who had slowly warmed up to me over time, decided I was her Person. She got clingy. She'd caterwaul when I left. Sleep on my chest, my head, my back. Wherever she could drape her angry little body. Full gremlin energy, but affectionate.
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  • 10
    Recently, Indy's health declined. She had a worsening heart murmur, and about a month ago, we made the difficult decision to let her go gently. She was 17. We were devastated all over again. And then, immediately after Indy's passing, like within a few days, something shifted. Pekoe changed.
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  • 11
    Suddenly, the cat who had ignored me for four years became obsessed with me. He sleeps with me at night now. Rolls over for belly rubs like I'm some kind of feline massage therapist. He insists on being in my office all day. If I go back to bed, he climbs in and snuggles up like I'm the last patch of sunlight in the universe. He wants me to feed him now. And he'll ignore my wife, his actual person, to come bop my chair and demand attention. Then he purrs like a dong lawnmower and looks at me wit
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  • 12
    We didn't change our routine. We didn't rearrange the house. My wife is still very much present and fully available for cuddles. But Pekoe is acting like I'm his long-lost soulmate and he's making up for lost time. Which leaves both of us, me and my wife, completely baffled. I have several theories:
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  • 13
    1. Indy bu ied him into keeping his distance, and now that she's gone, he's free to pursue this forbidden human romance. 2. He's grieving, and somehow senses I'm grieving too. But it feels less like "let's heal together" and more like "rub my belly, grief monkey." 3. This is a long con. He's softening me up for something. I don't know what. He's terrible at being a cat, so probably not murder. But definitely something.
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  • 14
    The shift has been instant and total. I feel like I'm living with a completely different animal. Nothing else has changed. My wife is still here. She is supposed to be his person. Now apparently I am?
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  • 15
    Has anyone else had a cat pull this kind of emotional U-turn? I feel like I'm living with a completely different animal now. I mean, I'm not complaining - he's a great cuddler and he's terrible at being a cat, and that's sort of charming in its own right - but I feel like I missed something here. Is this normal? Is this grief? Is he just now realizing I give excellent belly rubs? A glitch in the Cat Matrix? Or have I been a mark all along?
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  • As you are reading this, we know that you are thinking to yourselves that there is no way that this could get any weirder and sillier, but you are wrong. It can, and it does, and we can only say one thing: we beg you to please write more as this story progresses. 

  • 19

    "Update: I thought my wife’s cat hated me for four years. Now he’s obsessed with me."

    It has been over a month since | posted about this situation, and I can tell you: I am slowly going mad. Many of you responded to that post, alluding to some version of the theory that Indy, our cat who recently passed, had claimed me as hers, and that she had kept the other cat, Pekoe (I thought I should share some pictures of him this time), from me. I have now come to believe this may be true, but not in the way you all thought. I think she was protecting me from him. One might even say she d
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  • 20
    He does not stop meowing. Am I exaggerating? Of course I am. He is not capable of uttering a constant, repeating, irritating meow every second, on the second, for all eighty-six thousand, four hundred seconds of the day. He is asleep approximately 16-18 hours of the day. He also spends 10–30 seconds per meal inhaling the variety of damp, brown, pâté- like meat pastes we drop onto his ornate, flower-shaped ceramic cat dish, multiple times a day.
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  • 21
    Meow. He is capable of keeping up that unrelenting pace of meowing for several consecutive minutes, sometimes as many as fifteen of them (my personal best in resisting his un-siren-like call), bundled together into an episode of mind-eroding sonic torture. It is not loud. No, it is worse than loud. It is like a psychic lance to the skull. As though someone is tapping on the blackboard of my mind with chalk-dusted fingers, little scratches of nerve-wrenching shocks to my cerebellum. Over and over
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  • 22
    Meow. Meow. I have ascertained some of the meanings of his belligerence. The purposes of these verbal assaults are many. Here are just a few of the reasons he has decided to employ this persuasion technique: He would like his breakfast approximately three hours early (5 a.m.). • He would like a second serving of breakfast.
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  • 23
    • He thinks he can convince whichever one of us didn't serve him breakfast that he hasn't had breakfast yet. • He would like some of my breakfast. • He would like lunch now. Yes, he has recently decided he would like lunch. • He is thirsty. He, of course, has a massive cycling water bowl, but it seems he must announce when he is heading off for a drink. • He would like an afternoon snack. • He would like my afternoon snack. • He is wondering if he can have some of our dinner.
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  • 24
    • He would like his own dinner. • He would like my wife to stop singing. • He would like to be pet. • He would like to be drawn into a cuddle and pet. • He would like to be drawn into a cuddle and pet at 1 a.m. • He would like to be drawn into a cuddle and pet at 3 a.m. • He would like to have a post-breakfast cuddle. • He would like to have a post-dinner cuddle.
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  • 25
    • He would like to be elevated onto the bed. • He would like to be de-elevated from the bed. Here are two things he does not utilize this skill for: • Warning us he is about to vomit a hairball (or his dinner) onto the bed. Letting us know he has failed to reach the litter boxes, and has instead opted on the stairs. to
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  • 26
    Meow. Meow. Meow. And finally, to explain the elevation points, and the yet-unmentioned and most egregious use of this newfound misuse of his vocal powers, I must explain that my desk, where I work most days, is in a cubby in our bedroom. Directly behind me is our marital bed, which, in his ascension and self-crowning as King of this Domain, he has claimed as his royal throne.
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  • 27
    Yes, there are stairs installed at the end of the bed. Yes, he is perfectly capable of using them. But no, he does not lower himself to such indignities when his human- powered elevation device is present. To be clear: I am that human-powered elevation device. Not my wife. Not any other nearby human. Just me. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow.
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  • 28
    And this leads us to the newest, and most heart-melting, yet infuriating, implementation of his royal declarations: begging for my attention. Not just my attention, but a very specific form of attention that he bypasses my wife for entirely. She cannot perform this task, apparently. Only I can. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow.
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  • 29
    This is entirely our fault. He was terrible at being a cat in the first place. He had no motivation to chase mice, strings, or even little laser lights. He never showed any interest in getting to high places like most other cats. In fact, the only time I've seen him try to ascend further than the couch was to get to the back of the couch, where my wife had left her bowl of ice cream unattended. He has always been spoiled, and we spoil him further, because there is no going back. He is nearly 17.
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  • 30
    Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Even as I write this, he is pawing at the back of my chair, demanding that I perform my duty. That duty? Belly rubs.
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  • 31
    It's not just any old belly rubs. He likes when I grasp him firmly, but gently, press my head against him, and flop him down onto his side. A gesture that began out of pure frustration (after being interrupted for the seventh time in an hour, I pressed him to the bed and gave him a fury-fueled belly rub as recriminations for his bad behaviour) only to have him start purring. Loudly. The same way he used to purr for my wife when she would relent and let him cuddle her in the wee hours. A purr I o
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  • 32
    Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Now, weeks later, I must repeat this ritual several times a day. I am not allowed on the bed with him. I must remain seated in my chair, leaning over him so he can paw at my shirt or attempt to clean my face. He either wants to be fully on his back, clinging to my arm with his front paws, or slightly on his side, kneading the air like a baker of invisible biscuits. Is it cute? Of course. Is it annoying and inconvenient? Almost exclusively.
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  • 33
    • When I am in meetings. Meow. • When I am deep in a programming binge. Meow. • When I am desperately trying to maintain focus on a passage of prose. Meow. • When I am trying to watch course material for work. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow.
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  • 34
    It is slowly eroding away at my tether. I can feel each utterance pierce into the meaty noodles of my gray matter, like an infestation of furry caterpillars crawling amongst my neurons. And yet, how can I be angry with him? How can I be annoyed, his aged-purr muscles sputtering as I stroke his belly, sounding like an ancient lawn tractor lurching back to life, the engine struggling to turn over even with the choke fully pulled out. The kind of noise you hear before some gristled old man in a pla
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  • 35
    Sometimes I try to re-establish my grasp of reality by engaging these mewlings in conversation: "Meow." "Sorry, I didn't catch that.” "Meow." "No, it's not time for dinner yet, buddy." "Meow." "You wouldn't talk to your mother like that." "Meow." "It's not okay to use that kind of language in this house." "Meow." "Seriously, where did you learn that word? It wasn't from me."
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  • 36
    Is it working? I don't know. My wife and mother-in-law find these exchanges hilarious. They don't realize this is my last- ditch effort to keep my sanity. I don't think it's working. I am losing it. He never stops until he gets what he wants. Any sense of autonomy I had as an adult has rotted away. I no longer feel in control of my day, let alone the idea of having any say in my destiny. I have no choice here. I must comply. I can only choose to endure or comply. There is no relief from it. I ha
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  • 37
    Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Is this why we often jest about cats owning us? It doesn't feel so funny any more. It feels horrifyingly, viscerally, unerringly true. I once believed I was terrorized by the other cat, her machinations and demands feeling pointed, but now, I wonder: have I been inherited, passed like a crown, from one master to the next? Is this orange monster my Joffrey?
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  • 38
    I can feel myself coming unglued at times, and the conversations take a darker turn. I'll turn to my wife and say: "Listen, I'm not 100% on the translation, but I'm pretty sure he's saying he's tired of it here, and he'd like to be taken to the shelter to find a more extravagant home, something more suited to his proclivities."
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  • 39
    Or: "I'm pretty sure he just said it's time to cut the apron strings. He's ready to get out there, get a job, and find a place of his own. I think we should support him in gaining his independence." Or: "Pekoe tells me he's interested in taking up lake swimming."
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  • 40
    She finds these less funny, especially since I've repeated them enough that she now warns of severe consequences if I even think such a thing. Do I think such a thing? Only in jest, I assure you. I may be going mad, but I am not a monster. I would never hurt this cat, or any other creature. I am gentle with them, and I love them more than people. Even this cat. This cat, who tests the limits of the love between us. I do love him. I do. I swear.
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  • 41
    Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. I am just baffled. Annoyed, certainly, but mostly baffled. Why does he like this ritual so much? Is this play for him or some elaborate humiliation ritual for me that I do not yet fully comprehend? If I stop and turn back to my work, he will wait a few minutes, then cry for me again, and when I return he has stood up again. So being knocked over is part of it. But why? Why is he so particular? What does it mean? What is this?
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  • 42
    Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. I am resigned to my fate. I will act as his personal elevator, and I will serve him his rubs of the belly. I do, and will find mental fortitude and emotional sustenance as he enjoys my attention. I will let my heart melt as he grasps my arm. Or when he paws my shirt. Or when he makes his air biscuits. But ...why are the air biscuits he makes so slow... and... so delicious?
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