Editor’s Note: No felines were harmed in the writing of this mostly true story. Some parts have been dramatized, because that’s just in this author’s nature.
“‘Eye of the Tiger’ was written for you, Fiona!” I cry, pointing at our one-eyed, 4-year-old black cat resting on our carpet. Hearing her name, she rolls onto her back, offering her stomach for a belly rub. But this is no time for pampering. I need to tell her my master plan.
“Too long have we tolerated this world with dogs dominating 5Ks! Too long have we approached expo booths with bowls full of Milk-Bones instead of cat treats! Too long have I endured seeing online lists titled, ‘Shaking his head, Paul walks out of the room. Sid races after him!’
“Today we begin your training! Soon you will become a runner’s four-legged best friend!” Unable to right herself, Fiona tumbles onto her side. Startled, she zooms out of the room. “That’s the spirit, FiFi!”
Fiona and I are participating in a marathon—a movie marathon. I’m schooling her with the classics: Running Shoes Probably Didn’t Cause Your Injury, Other Hearst Subscriptions, Tracktown. She’s next to me on the couch, paws tucked, eye slightly closed. I can’t tell if she’s squinting at the screen with scrutiny or about to fall asleep.
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“OK, Fiona!” She awakens. “The first thing we need to do is build your stamina.” I brandish a wand toy and start waving the feathers attached to it in front of her face. She sits up, nose wrinkled, annoyed.
Our much younger cat, Sidney, who we adopted last year, trots into the room with my partner, Paul. He taps his shoulder with a treat in his hand. Sid jumps onto his back, standing on his shoulders like a parrot. “Playing with Fiona?” he asks.
“I’m training her to run with me.”
He gives me his “Should I take you seriously?” look.
“Fiona has unlocked potential. She’ll be a natural just by association,” I say, glancing at my medals and trophies on our bookshelf. I continue shaking the wand. Sid jumps down from Paul’s shoulder, whacking the feathers. Fiona backs away.
“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Paul says.
“It will happen! And it won’t be as traumatic as last time!”
Last time we walked her outside, a young cyclist raced by, scaring the crap out of Fiona. Ever since then, she’s never kept her cool around bikes. And who could blame her? Bicycles are to runners as dogs are to cats. Hiss.
ldquo;I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Paul says.
We’re just three days into training, and further attempts of encouraging Fiona to break into a sprint on command have gone nowhere. I need to give her a pep talk. In the dim light of our bedroom, I see Fiona brooding by a dresser, oblivious to my inner turmoil.
“Fiona-Kitten, we’re attempting the impossible. But I know you’ll succeed!” Her black form remains curled next to the furniture. I press on. “Fiona, darling, all we need is for you to start walking. You see those dogs outside the window on their leashes. I know we’re on the same wavelength as I watch you swish your tail: COMPETITION. We will prove that you can outrace them. FiFi! Are you even listening?”
I’ve been talking to a backpack.
I manage to strap Fiona into her harness, despite her resistance. On the trail by our home, carrier unzipped, I plead with her to come out. She stays inside, unmoved by the birds or squirrels.
Suddenly, the hairs on her back stand up. Cyclists. “Time for us to split.”
Purrhaps I’m going about this all wrong. I need to introduce her to other cats who’ve achieved athletic greatness. I show Fiona YouTube videos of Hokule’a, the Hawaiian surfing cat; Baloo, the Colorado hiking cat; equestrian cats.
Paul walks in. “How’s training going?” He jingles a laser keychain. A red dot appears on our wall. Sid beelines for it like a bat out of hell. Fiona, mildly interested, watches from her perch on the coffee table.
“Great!” I cry with forced enthusiasm. Paul doesn’t buy it. “Maybe you should just accept Fiona for what she is: lazy,” he teases. Sid darts for the red dot across the kitchen table, smacking into our sliding door.
I scowl at Paul as Fiona gets up and stretches. She jumps off the table and walks to her fountain. “That’s it, Fiona! Hydration is important!”
Shaking his head, Paul walks out of the room. Sid races after him.
“Fiona! Fiona?” It’s day five and I can’t find her anywhere. I look under our bed. Inside the laundry room. Peek into her litter box. I finally find her high up on the kitchen cabinets, paws midair, frozen.
“There you are, Fiona-Kitten! Come down now, please?” She’s a statue.
Paul pats me on the shoulder. “Maybe Fiona just isn’t cut out for running,” he says. I bow my head in defeat. It’s time to throw in the towel. Close the door on my—and Fiona’s—dream.
“Let’s go for a walk so you can give Fiona some space, OK? Come on, Sid.” Sidney bolts to his side and obediently lies on the floor as he snaps on her harness.
How to Run Your Best Disney Race.
Paul looks at my face. He sees my intent.
“Sid!” he yells, “RUN!”
Amanda is a test editor at Runner’s World who has run the Boston Marathon every year since 2013; she's a former professional baker with a master’s in gastronomy and she carb-loads on snickerdoodles.
