The Cat’s Meow
There’s an old joke that runs along the lines that at some point in history mankind worshipped cats as gods and cats have never forgotten this. I think there’s more truth in that statement than joke.
This household has two cats and frankly at times I wonder why we have them.
Pre-kids, our large orange cat, hight Strider, was a fountain of affection. Everywhere you went he would come and hang out – not in a creepy stalker way – just whenever you had a moment or needed a quick cat fix he was there. Now that the kids are around he generally only comes downstairs when the kids go upstairs to bed; and then he tries to fit 24 hours of cuddle time into the space of about 20 minutes. Mountain climbers stuck near the top of K-5 without a safety rope don’t cling so tightly.
Then there’s Willow, our deluded Calico. If there is a cat version of a lesbian, this cat is it. She hates men. Or maybe it’s just me. We’ve had this cat for at least 5 years, and I maybe have pet her twice. If I feed her, it is only me doing what I should be doing and how dare I seek gratitude for it; she didn’t ask to live with me after all. Should I scoop her cat box then it is only fitting for that’s where I belong anyway. Her crap is better than me.
Somewhere along the road of life, I developed the misconception that cats were clean animals. They are not. They are filthy. Let me count the ways:
· Cat Litter: in the morning you can easily retrace everywhere they’ve been overnight by following the trail of cat litter – honestly its like one of those Family Circus cartoons in the weekend paper that shows everywhere the kids have been over the weekend.
· Fur: Like all cats our cats shed. Unlike all cats, our cats fall just under the minimum line of “large members of the feline family” allowable by our strata and therefore shed a lot. You could weave a blanket out of the excess fur these cats get rid of – I’m thinking of weaving a toupee out of Strider’s excess because his fur almost closely matches my beard.
· Puke: our cats are nervous eaters. Either that or they’ve got bulimia. They head to the cat dish, chow down and then all of a sudden there’s puke on the floor. It’s gotten so that our 3 year old does a puke check first thing in the morning and is disappointed when he doesn’t find any (he’s not disappointed very often)
All in all I think we’re going to adopt a downsizing by attrition stance. We love (sometimes), like (often), detest (occasionally) our cats and aren’t going to forcibly get rid of them; it just so happens that when nature takes its course our current succession plan is to have no succession.
Stay tune for tomorrow’s excuse on why my floor won’t stay clean: Kids!