I’ve mentioned before that I dislike my cat.
[Just don't pay attention to the post since it was about my seventh post in the blogworld and sucks (more then these ones). M'Kay?]
Actually, dislike would be putting it mildly.
I fuckin’ hate that cat. HATE. HATE. HATE.
We’ve had a love-hate relationship from the day he came into my life - I think it’s progressed to a hate-hate over the past three years.
While in my second year of college I had a calico long haired kitten named Taija (tay - jah). She was the prefect cat: clean, comforting, happy and a pleasure to be around. When I moved into a new house of campus with some friends, it was an animal free home, but I kept her anyway. I just didn’t have it in my heart to give her away: since I’m one of those people who strongly believe that pets are not just throw aways when they become too much work or a hassle. My roommate obviously didn’t have the same feelings because she took my at to the shelter one day while I was at work.
That one that which happened to be my 19th birthday. Seriously. Pick a shitter day why don’t you?
Our relationship kinda went downhill from there and I ended up moving in with Mike a short while after.
Once in our new place, Mike gave me another cat as a Christmas gift - and though I don’t condone giving pets as gifts (because so many of those also end up in shelters once the novelty has worn off) - I was super excited.
I came home to find an empty box from a local pet store sitting on the stoop by the door.
I said hi, giving him a bit of a quizzical look: Mike looks up from his video game and states:
“Your present is in the bathroom behind the toilet.”
Nice.
(So he may not have much tact, but he has a big heart.)
A beautiful little grey, green-eyed tabby stared back at me from behind the tank. I slowly reached from him as I spoke softly and his haunches went up as he started to hiss.
And so our relationship was off to a fantastic start.
I one of those people who believe that a pet is for life. I have no intention of sending him packing, even though it has been suggested far too often by family and Mike. They seem to view animals as disposable when the going gets tough, and I just can’t bring myself to drop off an animal simply because he drives me up the wall.
From constantly throwing up wherever and whenever he sees fit to shitting and pissing on clothes and carpeting; he has to be one of the dirtiest animals I have ever seen. It’s pretty sad when I have to do a sweep of the house to search for any unwanted presents when we’re expecting guests. For a somewhat neat and obsessive person that I am, it makes me a fuckin‘ lunatic when I find these unwanted gifts. I go into this blind rage causing me to think of all the harmful and hateful things I could do to this animal: but it all fades in time and we’re back to just hating each other.
He’s been checked over by our vet yearly and, much to Mike’s chagrin, each time he’s been giving a clean bill of health. A very clean bill of health - like, we’ve been told to expect at least another 8 years of him.
He’s limited his defecation to clothes that are tossed haphazardly on the basement floor - and their usually an article of Mike’s which really pisses him off. Simple solution: pick up your clothes, right? Well, not Mike. He feels that since it’s his house he should have the right to toss his clothes as he sees fit and not have to be concerned about the fact that they may acquire a certain odour or pile of poop left for ME to clean up.
That’s right. Me. I clean it up.
Otherwise the offending article will end up in the hamper with shit still clung to it.
Seriously.
[Sometimes I wonder: who's dirtier? The cat or the man?]
And! Everything just gets weirder when I’m pregnant.
Since I’ve been off work both the dog and cat have been clinging to me. Stalking me.
The dog just sits and stares at me. Stares constantly. Wants nothing, just stares.
And the cat? I wake in the middle of the night and he’s there, right beside me in bed, he follows me to the bathroom constantly under foot which makes me question his motives: is he just trying to be close to me, or trying to trip me since I’m in a blurry state of sleep and can’t see me feet?
I thin he’s trying to do me in while walking down the stairs, by weaving in and out around my feet.
Smug little bastard. REMEMBER WHO PROVIDES YOUR FOOD, HOUSING AND LITTER YOU LITTLE SHIT.
The tripping and weaving has turned into some kinda sick game leading me to the point where I have to actually kick him down the stairs prior to me trying to take a step. Now before you call the SPCA note that there are 5 steps - not a full flight - and he’s fat, so he’s well padded. He can take it.
Plus it gives me what little satisfaction I can get out of seeing him flop ass over tea kettle down those stairs until he reaches the bottom.
Glaring at me when he reaches the bottom of the stairs, I can just tell he’s plotting where to leave the next shit-filled gift of love.
Stupid furball.
