I don’t have a fondness for cats. They can coexist with me peacefully, until they’re in my home. Cats are assholes. I cannot live with another species that has such an inflated sense of superiority. I’m bigger, smarter and I have absolute control of their Meow Mix. It’s a power struggle. Furthermore, I spell better than cats.
I have compiled a list of perhaps the worst cats I have ever lived with or known firsthand that probably altered my ability to love one as a pet.
First, early childhood, my grandma’s cat; Beretta. A Siamese cat, and yes, named after the show. I thought this Siamese cat would be awesome because of Lady and the Tramp’s twin Siamese cats. “We are Sia-meeese if you please…” Right? Whatever. Moving on. I was perplexed as to why this cat did not have a twin, and assumed it perhaps ate its twin. This cat was hefty. It was also a jerk. This fucking cat bit me every time I was within a 12 inch radius. I was not that dumb kid that picked cats up by the tail or pulled their ears. I would extend my hand to pet, and the cat would bite. This probably laid the foundation for my dislike of cats, and explains my inability to learn by negative reinforcement.
Fast forward to fifteen year old me. Mom brought home a kitten. My sister named it Simba (Lion King); I know, dumb name right? Well, my brother used to go knock on the front door and I would yell through the house “Oh my God, Barney and Steve from Blues Clues are here!” She fell for it every time, running to open the door as my brother and I collapsed with our overwhelming pleasure with ourselves and our funny jokes. This cat and I didn’t click from day one, maybe because I made fun of its name. It hissed and scratched at everyone…or me, yeah, mostly me. After a couple of months of obvious mutual hatred and tension, Simba decided to have a poop party in my closet. I noticed an odor and traced it to shoes and clothes I had tossed on the floor of my closet. Not only did this cat use my personal storage as it’s litter box, I know she gave me a middle finger while she did it. My favorite Adidas covered in feces. I was so in love with these shoes I was tempted to weigh the pros and cons of keeping them. Toxoplasmosis is tempting but, I had to toss them. My mother got rid of that cat. Cats are such assholes that once they ruin an area of your house with their waste…they keep doing it over and over. They aren’t picking up the scent, they’re taunting you with passive aggressive poop locations, because they can.
My last cat was a charity case that my blackened heart should have known better than to do. Toby, a girl cat, my son named after a character on Thomas the Train (this show is like thirty minutes of the most boring parts of Mr. Rogers). I took her in and it didn’t go well. She loved to be recklessly loud the minute I went to sleep. She would suddenly find a hair tie the most fun thing to play with and even more fun if it’s coupled with clawing up furniture. Also fun, would be to meow at absolutely nothing but do it continuously (yes, she was fixed). Her poop was the most foul smell I have ever experienced. It had the potent ability to wake me from the deepest slumber. I researched, I bought expensive food, I made a valiant effort to correct this. What’s better? She loved to unleash her toxic turds every time I had sex. I can’t believe I had that boyfriend as long as I did (the smell was deal breaker worthy). Sometimes she would poop outside of the litter box, inches from the litter box. I took that personal. She had to go too.
I don’t know if cats and I will ever have a healthy relationship. I’ll continue to have the very casual relationship I have with them vicariously through other people’s ownership. It’s not my house, not my Adidas shoes, so I think that would probably be best for us both.