Some of you already know this but my cat, Zelda, is an asshole. She is. There. I said it. This could be a whole series of blog entries I’m afraid.
First, I’m a dog person. I never wanted a cat but I got one which is a whole different story I’ll save for another time. We have a dog, Sadie, who is the antithesis of asshole. She’s unconditionally loving, cuddly, appreciative of any morsel of affection you throw her way, loyal– all the things that make dogs superior to cats.
Zelda on the other hand is cranky, moody, aggressive, bossy, spiteful, manipulative and sometimes downright viscous. All the things that make cats… well… cats.
Yes, I admit, we are Zelda’s bitch. I have been known to sit still on the couch, hungry with a full bladder, but afraid to move because Zelda is on my lap and seemingly enjoying it. Bart has been afraid to get out of bed because he fears her majesty is in her lair (under the bed) and craving the taste of human flesh. And Sadie–poor sweet Sadie– is terrified. Always. And with good reason usually. Zelda loves to lunge out at Sadie from behind a trash can, the couch, even a sneaker. Zelda is much bigger than a sneaker. Sadie, sweet as she is, isn’t the wettest nose in the pack. Did I also mention she’s a 75 pound pit bill. Zelda, you are playing with fire.
I woke up this morning to find a man’s sock in the hallway. Just a dirty old sock balled up right there in the middle of the floor. Odd, I thought. That wasn’t there when I went to bed. I didn’t pay much more attention to it until Bart woke up and pointed it out.
“See that?” he said, pointing to the sock. “I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and Zelda came out of the dark and attacked me so bad she ripped my sock off!”
Ladies and gentlemen, she ripped his sock off. Okay, she’s a big cat, about 14 pounds but I don’t think I could manage a drive by sock ripping. SHE RIPPED HIS SOCK OFF!
I’ve been attacked too many times to count. Once I had to beat her off my arm with a fork. Another time I had to shimmy out of my sweatpants because in her frenzy to get to my flesh she so entangled herself in the fabric she nearly strangled herself on the drawstring. The backs of my calves often look like a California road map. Tell me! How do cats get away with this crap? Can you imagine what would happen if she was a pit bull? I can. Bye, bye doggy. And yet when cats do this people (CAT LOVERS) say things like, “Oh I know! Bitsy does that too!” or “She’s just playing!”
Really? Playing? My cat is three tail swishes away from shanking me in the shower. I’m to believe she’s just playing?
But yet I remain Zelda’s bitch. I won’t give her up to the shelter she originally came from or back to the friend who dumped her with me. I won’t pawn her off on another friend because everyone knows her and don’t like being in the same room with her let alone her primary caregiver.
And so it goes. Zelda’s reign of terror continues. For what, I ask? What do I get in return? WHY DO WE HAVE CATS?
Hold that thought.Zelda wants some wet food. And to watch Top Chef. And we should probably turn the heat on for her. It’s supposed to get down in the 30’s tonight!
She is kind of cute though, isn’t she?
Ahhhh! Stop it!
Wait wait, rewind the tape. Bart wears socks to bed? Don’t bury the lead like that.
Jeez, Andy. Why’d you make me spit coffee all over my computer! Don’t you know the scent of hazelnut attacks cats and– yep– here she comes. Rightttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt.
Sorry. That was from Zelda.
Would it help if i said they were “business socks?” Huh? A little Flight of the Conchords to start your day?
Anyway, yes, he does sometimes wear socks and he usually takes them off about 14 seconds after getting into bed which results in this little molehill of socks at the foot of the bed. This night in particular it was cold. Partially because we leave the balcony door open all day because Miss Cat Face likes to go in and out on a whim and partially because our downstairs neighbor hasn’t turned his heat on yet for some reason. Usually we get all the way through January without turning on the heat because this guy is so free and easy with it that it just pours through our heater. (I have turned into my mom and will not even entertain the notion of heat in November. Wear a sweater. Or in this case, socks.) So yes, Bart wears socks to bed for any period of time between 14 seconds to 8 hours.
And let’s not forget what we’re really talking about here- cats are a**holes.
Hi Shelly,
Nice to see you posting more here now that that pesky wedding planning/happening and book writing are over with. Many thanks and the gang out here in Chicago will continue to pray for your well being and safety.
Mike
Thank you, Mike. Bart, Sadie and I appreciate that!