Humor
Share this image

"Hello, My Name is Angie, and I'm a Cat-Huffer"

My addiction is smelling warm cat bellies. Recovery? No interest at all. More cats, please!

 |  Jul 2nd 2013  |   175 Contributions


I've been an addict my entire life, and now I'm ready to come clean. I'm a hopeless cat-huffer ... and I have absolutely no interest in recovery on any level.

There, I've said it.

Saffy is 12-pounds of pure intoxication.

What's cat-huffing? In the simplest terms, it's burying one's face into a cat's body (usually the neck or abdominal region) and repeatedly inhaling deeply until the cat loses patience. An addict will allow her face to rest in the cat belly for hours, if allowed. You see, we cat-huffers just can't get enough of the sweet-smelling feline nirvana. 

My earliest memories of cat-huffing are from my teenage years, when I was looking for a distraction from the John Hughes-ness of high school and my overly emotional, poetry-writing boyfriends. I'd pop The Smiths in the cassette player and lose myself in a warm cat belly and the overly emotional, poetry-writing Morrissey. 

Re-enactment of my teenage cat-huffing -- full of angst and in love with Molly Ringwald.

My habit continued into adulthood. Before we had children it was easier to hide my cat-huffing obsession. My husband went camping quite a bit, and I was left to my own devices. I'd binge for days, not answering the phone and surviving on gummy bears and Mary Tyler Moore marathons on Nick at Nite. A few hours before my husband was due to come home, I'd quickly tidy up the house and hide all the empty catnip containers, gummy bear bags and Smiths CDs.

Oh, I was good.

Some days I wouldn't even get dressed.

After we had children, it became increasingly difficult to maintain the addiction, which was a challenge because with the chaos of kids, I needed that kitty belly more than ever. I'd begin avoiding housework in favor of extended huffing sessions throughout the day. When my husband returned home to a sink full of dirty dishes and piles of unwashed laundry, I'd blame my negligence on a fussy baby or a sudden allergy to dish soap. 

As my kids grew older, even though I played it cool, I had a feeling my family was onto me. I'd often take "naps" with my cats, and everyone was used to my jokes about not being able to go to the bathroom alone. Is it an all-time low that I cat-huff while using the facilities? I don't think so. The cats don't mind, and it's much more relaxing than reading a magazine or playing Words With Friends. 

Re-enactment of bathroom cat-huffing. What? He's in my lap anyway.

I find that holidays are the toughest time for me. With a house full of company, my cats usually take off and hide in undisclosed locations. Not only am I stressed out with hosting duties, I cannot readily get a fix without crawling under a bed or sereptitiously slithering behind the sofa in my holiday dress. Hey, I'm not always proud of the lengths to which I'll go, but that's what happens when you huff the cat.

These days I exclusively work from home, and my preoccupation is much easier to perpetuate. I even placed a basket on my desk so I can lean over and get a quick buzz every so often. They just lie there and allow it -- in fact I think they like it. And don't you dare call them codependent. They're angels ... with furry little wings made of ecstasy.

I even cat-huff while on the job.

My husband recently hinted at my habit and half-jokingly suggested some sort of treatment center called Whiskered Whispers: Huff-No-More. I immediately went into a full-on panic attack, grabbing all three cats and hysterically burying my face in the triple-hit, huffing like I've never huffed before. He freaked out and pried the pussycats from my shaky hands. I immediately ran into the bedroom, locked the door and cued up The Smiths on my iPod. 

My husband finally submitted to my peer pressure: "All the cool kids are cat-huffing."

I've come to realize that yes, perhaps I am an addict on some level, but I'm not even remotely interested in any sort of rehabilitation. Cat-huffing brings me joy, and my husband has finally come to see the light. In fact, he's started occasionally cat-huffing himself -- sometimes we'll even plan an entire date night around it. It's a fact: Cat fur smells magical, and if filling my face with that magic makes me wrong, I don't want to be right.

Author's note: Portions of this story have been slightly embellished for entertainment purposes, but most of it is completely and absolutely the truth.

Are you a cat-huffer? Tell us about it in the comments!

 ++++

About the Author: Angie Bailey is a goofy girl with freckles and giant smile who wants everyone to be her friend. Loves pre-adolescent boy humor, puns, making up parody songs, and thinking about cats doing people things. Wrote a ridiculous humor book about cats wheeling and dealing online. Partner in a production company and writes and acts in comedy web series that may or may not offend people. Mother to two humans and three cats, all of which want her to make them food.

Read more by Angie Bailey: 

Contributions

Tip: Creating a profile and avatar takes just a minute and is a great way to participate in Catster's community of people who are passionate about cats.

blog comments powered by Disqus