image of angry cat real estate agent

The Unknown Agent didn’t love cats to begin with. (Getty Images)

A 10-year veteran of New York real estate, The Unknown Agent has done deals in four of the five boroughs (sorry, Staten Island). He has done the dance with buyers, sellers, landlords and tenants — and has never been late for an appointment. Submit your NYC real estate stories and tips to StreetEasy at You will remain anonymous.

It started off like a normal showing. A nice family was coming to see a large apartment on the Upper East Side. It was listed for $2.5 million, and for me, the sale would carry the quarter.

But I knew this showing would be problematic. That’s because this seller had a cat. Being allergic to cats, I naturally have reservations about being around them. But this cat was totally spoiled. It had its own bedroom, complete with toys, a climbing post, and of course, a big litter box. As cats tend to do, the little guy hid under the bed when potential buyers entered the home.

I showed the buyers the home, and it was going well.

“Hey, check out that chef’s kitchen!”

“Look at the fabulous natural light!”

“Yes, that is private outdoor space!”

It was a nice apartment, and things seemed to be clicking with the potential buyers.

But, as with most kids who attend showings, these ones got restless and started running around, wrestling and making lots of noise. And guess who didn’t like that one bit? Yep — the cat, which we’ll call “Cujo.”

The kids were stomping around the apartment, and the cat was holed up under the bed in its room, growling at them. I don’t mean hissing, but all-out growling, which I could hear clearly from outside the room. Either the kids didn’t hear Cujo, or didn’t care. But I took note.

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After about 45 minutes, the showing ended and the family left. It was now time to close up shop. Lights off? Check. Shades lowered? Check.

I was in the master bedroom and could hear Cujo growling louder than ever from its room. What happened next was beyond my comprehension of the ferocity of cats. Cujo ran from its room and lunged at me, swiping at my legs and clawing me through my pants. It actually drew blood! Being the brave real estate agent that I am, I did a “Monty Python” and told myself it was only a flesh wound.

But the cat wasn’t done. It proceeded to bite my leg — more blood! The song coursing through my head was Ted Nugent’s “Cat Scratch Fever,” but I was literally in survival mode. I realized there was a clear path between me and the door, and I made a break for it. I got out to the hallway of the apartment building, and thank goodness the cat didn’t come with me. My heart was pounding out of my chest. All from a single housecat!

As usual when closing up a house, I wondered if the stove got turned off. Oh, well. I wasn’t going back into that house of horrors.

When I get back to the office, I called the owner to update him on the showing, and told him about the cat. “The cat was probably hungry,” he said. Hungry? How about hangry?

No, the family didn’t buy that apartment. Actually, no one did. The listing expired without being sold. And I have had my fill of cats.

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