This cat is driving nuts.
Here she is pretending to sleep right before she woke up and flung her body toward my nose.
I’d shoo her away but she just turns on me, ears back ready to attack my hand….wait…oh, yeah, here she is on my desk.
She’s not supposed to be doing this either. I mean I don’t want her wafting her stinky butt all over my paperwork.
Yeah, this cat farts. Like a lot.
Loud, squeaky ones.
I didn’t even know cats could fart.
I mean, I’ve never met an animal like this. She wakes up in the morning on a mission to annoy the hell out me. The first stop? Hiding under my bed while I get dressed so she can attack my feet.
Man that pisses me off.
But it’s not just the feet. I walk into the kitchen and she follows me like a blur, leaping up toward my body in an attempt to dangle from my bellybutton. I know it’s only a matter of time before it’s my ear.
I sit at my computer and she tries to murder my mouse in cold blood.
I fall asleep on the couch and she goes for my eyes.
I open a piece of candy and she snatches it out of my hands like a thief in the night.
I wear a hooded sweatshirt and she tries to strangle me with the strings.
I move and she’s lurking in the corner somewhere waiting to leap.
She terrifies me.
And she steals my socks. She grabs them out of the laundry and attacks them with a hot fury before dragging them off somewhere in the house to murder them and bury their remains. She’s got a taste for cotton, the fabric of our lives, she salivates for wool and has an insatiable hunger for nylon.
And I am left bare-footed.
In addition, I cannot find the string to my robe, which I’ve witnessed this animal harassing hundreds of times. I imagine she’s gone and buried it with the socks, leaving me to walk around all morning exposing parts of my pasty winter flesh to a world not quite ready for things like that.
Oh, it’s not just me who’s fed up. Big Brown Dog and his Big Brown Tail have suffered ninja-like assaults for months without the permission or the heart to fight back.
Even the pug, the world’s only canine cat whisperer, has expressed his frustrations at the surprise and unapproved cat piggyback rides with an eye roll and what I thought sounded a little like a growl.
The only two creatures in this house who seem to be satisfied with this little feline terrorist situation are the damn cat and the damn husband.
Because the damn cat was the damn husband’s idea.
And I think she knows it. I mean, I swear I saw her smirk at me while she was snuggling up next to him on the couch last night, so innocent and fluffy, full of purrs and kitten goodness.
“See,” said my damn husband. “She’s nice.”
But she’s not nice.
She claws at my walls.
She climbs on the table.
She bites my favorite dog’s tail and is working really hard to take care of the pug’s only remaining eye.
And if that happens, well, we have a situation.
Oh, and you know what else is weird? The cat’s litter box is by the door. Every time someone enters through that door the wierdo races to her litter box and proceeds to take a shit, a sort of “look what I can do move” while she makes these really weird pushing noises.
I don’t understand? Does she save these shit’s for company? Can she shit on cue?
Seriously. That’s a real thing.
I would videotape it but I already feel awkward enough having just written that sentence.
Am I really talking about cat-shitting here?
Damn you cat! What have I become?
If you need me I’ll be looking for my socks.