I fancy this, I fancy that, I want to be so flash. I give a little muscle and I spend a little cash, but all I get is bitter and a nasty little rash. And by the time I’m sober, I’ve forgotten what I’ve had, and everybody tells me that it’s cool to be a cat. It’s cool for cats. – Squeeze
Last night had the potential to be the blissful and stress-free oasis of downtime that I had anticipated in my last post. After a few preliminary chores, I settled down on the sofa with a book while Carl, my resident crotchety feline senior citizen, sprawled his fat white ass across the couch cushion opposite me.
No sooner had I opened my book to where I left off than I began feeling uneasy in a vague but persistent way. I looked up from the page and found myself staring directly into Carl’s angry, piercing eyes. From the moment I sat down, my miniature domesticated tiger fixed his gaze upon me in an obvious attempt to transmit whatever vile, hateful feelings my presence stirred in him across the space between us.
I tried to ignore him for a few minutes, but cats have an impressive capacity to focus single-minded on a task for as long as might be needed, and his current task of making me hyper-aware of his inexplicable disdain had not yet been fulfilled. I closed the book.
Nothing. Perhaps his brow or whatever you call that upper-head area on a cat furrowed a little more deeply upon realizing that he had finally caught my attention. He remained steadfast, staring one uninterrupted dagger at me, boring his derision into my soul.
“I don’t need your shit, Carl,” I said aloud in an attempt to distract him from the psychological torture he was trying to inflict upon me. “Unless you’ve grown opposable thumbs since this morning, I am your meal ticket, douche bag. Show me some respect, or you may just go hungry.”
The next few minutes found us engaged in a knock down, drag out war of words. I will spare you the ugly details but suffice it to say, things were said that will almost surely be regretted in the near future. That is to say, I said some things that I will almost surely regret in the near future. Carl is incapable of regret. Not so much because he’s a cat with a correspondingly simple cat’s brain, but because he’s an asshole. An ungrateful bastard who pukes out every other bowl of Cat Chow onto my living room carpet out of sheer spite.
I have lived with many cats and will almost certainly live with more. Obviously, I find something endearing in these inscrutable, emotionless animals. But don’t ever call me a “cat person”. I know several of them, and I am absolutely not one of them. They are the lonely individuals who are so delusional that they can convince themselves their little feline freeloaders are actually capable of love and appreciation. They are not, I assure you. Yes, they depend on you for food and shelter, but if anything, they view that as your obligation. As long as the food and water bowls are continually replenished, the little piece of shit doesn’t care if you live or die. Or possibly, when staring at you through two angry angular slits, they are trying to bring about your death through sheer force of will. Then again, their minds may be near-total vacuums and the seemingly hateful looks they level at us are really nothing more than the way their faces look at all times regardless of their emotional state. You can’t hate a creature for being stupid.
But Jesus, that look! You know what, Carl? I’m tired of giving you the benefit of the doubt. Fuck you. Okay? Just fuck you.