Like some malicious form of clockwork, I find myself once again in yet ANOTHER situation where I have to deal with someone else’s shitty cat.
And I must emphasize the someone else’s part, because the shittiest cats are always the ones that are malicious, crapping-in-your-shoes, scratching-your-calves and hissing-at-you-from-afar little monsters, yet turn into gentle, long suffering and adorable extras from an SPCA ad every time their owner comes in the room. They know what they’re doing. They’re like the kid on the playground that would push you in the sandbox and take your lunch money, yet put on an “aw, shucks, me?” face and folded hands when the teacher was looking. They are insufferable.
I think there is a certain type of personality that loves cats, and deeply appreciates their unique devotion that drives them to the point of being an asshole to everyone else in the world. See, dogs can be more loyal to one person than all the rest without compromising his ability to be A DECENT HUMAN BEING. Or dog. Whatever.
And the owners are always so quick to say, “oh, don’t pick him up. He can be a little skittish,” which they very well know is code for “if you reach out to touch him, you’re going to pull back a bloody stump.” Can you appreciate for a moment the concept of having a living thing in your house whose only interaction with guests is to maul them? And expecting people to grin and bear this? Well, we do. Our inoffensive politesse knows no bounds.
And I don’t begrudge depressed spinsters their right to one or seventy of these monstrosities, everyone needs some company. What I dislike is the distinct emotional need that cats fill for this specific type of woman. She hates the world, and the world isn’t so fond of her. She feels jilted, alone, antisocial and unwanted. If she could, she would urinate on strangers and scratch furniture she dislikes to tatters. She cannot do this in our society, so she gets an insufferable animal whom she can live vicariously through. “Yes, Winkers, you tear that man’s calf open. You tear it open for all the men who never called me back for a second date.”
I’m tired of getting scratched at and bitten, or even just looked at judgmentally by those stupid walking kitchen mops. They smell bad, they shed everywhere, they contribute NOTHING to the overall ambiance of the house except maybe the feeling that someone is watching you with an air of detached superiority. They are shitty, shitty animals.
Not to mention the obvious, they shit IN BOXES IN YOUR HOUSE that linger for as long as you let them until you have to personally scoop them out and throw them away, a job that I thought would be the first we’d want to get rid of in a developed country. No, some people are content to reserve a special moment of their day to sift out another animal’s feces and carry it down to a trash can. Or, like some cat owners, they could see that task for the abomination that it is and let the waste linger in a corner in their bathroom for about two weeks too long until the whole house has that delightful “cat smell” which is a nicer way of saying “your entire house smells like a port-a-potty on a construction site in a Mexican desert.”
They are terrible animals, and I hate them.
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