It’s no secret that I love my damn cats. They are my family, after all, and they’ve been there with purrs and headbutts when my human relationships have faltered. They love me, and as long as I approach them with basic levels of kindness, decency, and kitty treats, that love is unconditional.
But let’s get real — my cats’ behavior can also make them hellish nightmare beasts, and sometimes I want to banish them from the living room for a while (just, like, an hour) so I can eat dinner or read a book without getting fur in my mouth and paws in my face. In that kind of behavior, I can find only so much humor.
Here are five reasons why my cats piss me off.
I am more than willing to make sacrifices for my cats. I have accepted that I will never have nice things, for example, and that I cannot wear black pants at home. I am okay with lint-rolling myself every morning before work, and the discovery of the occasional hairball in my flip-flop does not faze me.
But sometimes — just once a day for approximately 15 minutes — I would like to sit down and eat cereal without holding the bowl above my head to keep whiskered faces from penetrating my Frosted Mini-Wheats. It can be exhausting to use my feet to hold back two meowing house tigers (who are apparently starving and will die unless I share my food with them) while I hastily shovel cereal into my face-hole.
I mean, really. Cut the crap, drama queens.
I have several houseplants that are more than 10 years old. I have kept them alive through all-night study sessions, benders, and multiple moves, and I’m stupidly proud of that fact.
One of my favorites is a majestic snake plant named Steve. Despite Steve’s spiky leaves, Bubba Lee Kinsey has mistaken the wise old plant for a bed more than once. Both times I was able to salvage what was left of the ailing plant and repot it, which was somewhat miraculous considering Bubba’s preference for napping on loose dirt, smashed leaves, and shards of broken pottery.
The worst part was Bubba’s nonchalance upon my discovery of his destruction. “Whatever, lady,” his face seemed to say as he stretched luxuriously and gazed up at me while my eyes filled with tears.
PHOENIX! No! Clawing at the sleeves of my shirts and swatting at my underwear as I fold them is NOT helpful. Neither is plopping your white, furry body down on my black tank tops. You leave behind a layer of loose, downy floof, which coats my clothing like a layer of mesh — except the only thing it’s protecting me from is social acceptance.
I cannot go out that way. You realize I hate doing the laundry, right? If I had known this was going to happen I could have gone to bed instead of watching the “Soup Nazi” episode of Seinfeld for the 15th time while waiting for that last load to dry.
Dammit. You know what? Just forget it. I’ll deal with it in the morning.
BUBBA LEE KINSEY! No! My leg is not a threat to you. It is, in fact, connected to the torso that’s connected to the arm that’s connected to the hand that feeds you.
Remember that time you bit me so hard that the wound got infected and I needed antibiotics? Remember how the doctor was so alarmed upon learning that not only had the bite wound come from an average every day kitty cat, but a cat who was my pet who lives in my home and sleeps in my bed?
You know what? Just forget it. I’ll just hide in the bathroom until you’ve calmed down.
About Angela: This not-crazy-at-all cat lady loves to lint-roll her favorite dress and go out dancing. She also frequents the gym, the vegan coffee joint, and the warm patch of sunlight on the living room floor. She enjoys a good cat rescue story about kindness and decency overcoming the odds, and she’s an enthusiastic recipient of headbutts and purrs from her two cats, Bubba Lee Kinsey and Phoenix.
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