The Tale of Two Cats
I had two indoor cats. Then I had two outdoor cats. Actually they were the same cats, I just recycled them.
Don’t get me wrong. They were great cats. For a few years. Then one of them, who will remain nameless (because I have no idea which one it was) started puking everywhere. One night he practiced his craft by hacking seven times and perfected being a pain by pissing in my basket of clean folded laundry.
Then they both lived outside.
Before that I had spent a fortune buying special food since cats only evolved for thousands of years because their owners wasted tanks of gas to find that special non-allergenic, expensive as shit, hand-formed kibble, only to be rewarded with seven hacks in five different rooms and piss in a basket.
My child was worried they’d get hit by a car.
The fact that one of them wizzed in my clean clothes and the other didn’t warn him means neither of them is very smart.
So, will they run into the road? The odds are high.
I warned them. I told one if it wasn’t him, he should rat the other out. But I have discovered that no matter what tone or telepathic energy you use to communicate with a cat, their answer is always some form of “WTF, I’m a cat.”
They say it in a number of ways, some seemingly much stronger than others.
The standard response is to just completely ignore your request. Like with autocorrect, “There’s nothing you can do about it.”
The extreme response is to lick his genitalia. Nothing says “You’re insignificant even though you own the house,” like a cat cleaning his privates while you’re having a serious conversation with him. Then at that crucial moment he’ll pause, sticking one hind leg straight up in the air to show off his Kung Fu skills and his pink, erect kitty dick, and stare at you like, “Are you still speaking? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a cat.”
Then there’s the drama queen. As soon as he figures out he’s crossed the line, he'll scatter like you’re a hideous monster. He’ll slide across the hard wood like a cartoon character and drift under the bed letting his slime green eyes glow in the dark like a psycho killer. Then he holes up in fake fear until your family comes home and your kids scold you for doing something to that, “Poor helpless creature.”
It’s the pussy move.
Then there’s the passive aggressive jackass. When you least expect it, he’ll wiz in your clean basket of folded laundry and never take ownership. Nothing says, “Piss off” like pressing your fingers to a mystery wet spot and then holding it under your nose.
That’s the day I cracked.
Instead of always fighting to keep them in the house, I simply opened the door and watched them think they had snuck out. Then at dinner time, when each of them looked at me with that big-eyed question mark, I simply said, “Hey, you’re cats.”
Ever see a sign that read, “Curb your cat”? That’s because you don’t tell cats what to do. You just make living outside seem like their idea. Then you throw their shit out the upstairs window and when it rains down upon them, you watch them scatter like you’re a hideous monster.
And you laugh. Because acting like a psycho is the only redemption you will ever get against a cat. And it will seem short-lived once they figure out if they shit in the bushes by the house, you’ll smell it all summer long.
All I know is, they’re lucky they start as kittens.