No, I’m not crazy; I have cats. But then again, is there a difference?

Those of you who have cats, think on this: when was the last time you looked at them? I mean really looked at them. I did so the other day, and I realized something I had never noticed before when they were scurrying around the house, hiding my Chap Stick and ruining my sideboards:

They’re killing machines.

That’s right. Miniature killing machines that play with yarn.

And bottlecaps. And keys, and fragile trinkets (or rather, the pieces of fragile trinkets they have knocked off the top shelf).

I mean, look at them. Retractable claws. Lithe, agile bodies designed for stalking and pouncing. Sharp teeth in strong jaws. These things could fucking eat me.

I used to watch my kitten (Toby) playing with Stanley the Sock Monkey and think (against all my alpha male instincts), “How cute!” He’d pounce on Stanley, get him in his little paws, and worry at him with his hind legs.

But now that I’ve seen him for the death-machine he is, I’ve finally realized what he was really doing with those hind legs: trying to tear into Stanley’s throat. All that cute bouncing and flipping about was, in reality, a psychotic urge to act out the murder of another creature.

Let me elaborate: Stanley is sitting on the carpet, minding his sock monkey business. Toby stalks Stanley in the low grass (shag), creeping up behind Stan while his little yarn eyes aren’t looking. He wiggles his butt (how cute!), but what he’s really doing is finding good purchase so that he can leap on Stanley before he has time to react (though, being a sock monkey, Stanley has notoriously slow reflexes). He pounces, pins Stanley down with his front paws, and proceeds to go straight for the jugular (he has an uncanny knack for guessing just where the jugular would be on an animal that has, for all intents and purposes, no neck), ripping at the throat flesh.

Then, when Stanley has finally given up his useless struggling (flopping), Toby bitch-slaps him to see if he’s still moving. Stanley slides a short distance, and Toby pounces again, pinning the defenseless sock monkey to the ground, crushing any hope of escape. Then he smacks Stanley like he owes him money again (with enough force to crush his skull, if he had one) and pins him. This goes on for several minutes, until Toby gets bored and finds some other stuffed whatnot to torture.

I’m telling you, Hannibal Lecter had nothing on my cats, and I’ve allowed not one, but two of these creatures to sleep in my house (well, on my head, to be specific). These things are crawling around while I am asleep and unsuspecting. And my only weapon is a water gun.

It’s amazing I’ve lived this long.

 

I know that you do not know your own names; in fact, you may know yourselves better as “Holy Shit” and “You Little Bastard,” respectively. Chloe & Toby are the names I gave you upon adoption, however – the ones you cheerfully ignore on a daily basis.

There are a few matters that I would like to discuss with you, without the use of the spray bottle. Apparently, tapwater has corrosive properties when applied to cats, which may make it an effective tool for expressing anger, but not productive for a civil conversation.

The following are a few points you might keep in mind in order to foster a more nurturing relationship between us:

1. The bowls in the corner next to the scratching post are yours, and contain your food and water. The rest of the dishes in the house are mine, and contain my food. I do not sneak up when you are otherwise occupied and nibble out of your dishes; I would appreciate the same treatment in return. Granted, I do not particularly like processed liver and salmon bits, but the veterinarian has assured me that this is the preferred diet for your breed, and that Kraft macaroni, while appetizing, will do you little good in the nutrition area.*

Placing a paw upon the edge of my dish does not make the food contained therein yours. Please do not bat at me when I try to recover my own dish. If you pick a fight, it will end badly for you, as I am much bigger and have opposable thumbs.

While we’re on the topic of food, I’d like to point out that being able to see the bottom of the bowl does not necessarily mean the bowl is empty. There is no need to yell at me the instant a half-dollar-sized spot is cleared away; there is still more than enough for you to eat.

2. The door to my office is solid wood, 1.5″ thick. If, by some miracle, I manage to beat you through the doorway and shut you out, you will not be able to claw your way through the door before I am finished working; this is simple physics. You will, however, deprive me of my security deposit, which means you will be eating factory-outlet Cat Chow should I ever need to relocate.

Incidentally, my homicidal mood as I exit the office is a neurosis directly attributed to the noise of your claws on my door. If you do not wish to be drop-kicked down the stairs, I would suggest you desist.

3. I’ve been bathing myself for years; your attendance is not necessary. Yes, the water splashes on you when you smack it. Yes, it will splash you again when you timidly try it ten minutes later.

4. I’m sorry about the incident with the laser pointer. I did not know that you would charge full-tilt at the little red dot on the wall; nor did I know that you would be unable to halt your progress on the linoleum.

5. I cannot give milk, so stop treading for it. I realize that some kneading is a natural sign of affection in cats, but you’ve crossed into the realm of obsession with this behavior. Also, try to learn a bit about human physiology; when you knead certain places, it makes me very uncomfortable. It is what child psychologists call a “bad touch.”

6. I’ve seen you sleep perfectly well, curled up in a ball. I wonder, then, why it is necessary for you to stretch out to your fullest extent across my bed.

7. The couch was $400. You were $50. Do the math.

8. I know you can do the math, because I’ve seen you count. You allow me to walk exactly 5 steps in any direction before you attempt to dart between my legs. This may be a really neat game for you, but the kitchen floor is hard, and I don’t always land on my feet.

9. The litterbox is under the bathroom sink; the big mound on the floor is my jacket. Please do not confuse the two.

Thank you for taking time away from eviscerating each other to address these issues. I trust that you will continue to let me know the instant you need something.

Love,
Pip

*Me neither.