And also don't think I'm being mean because I know those bitches would kill me if they could figure out how. I've seen them staring at me with that look in their eyes. You know the one. The one that says, "You're so lucky I don't have opposable thumbs, you loathsome fool, or you'd be a red stain in my poop by now. I will let you live another day..."
Don't get me wrong, I'm a HUGE animal lover. In fact, I like animals more than people. Most of them at least. Save for the occasional (make that all) snakes and usually (every damn one) spiders will die if you come into my house. It's like the Dracula principal. If you're not invited to cross my personal threshold but manage to get in, I'm going to go Banzai Buffy on your ass and you might not do that cool poof-to-ashes thing but you'll be a black stain torn to pieces right darn quick.
I've hesitated writing about my girls thus making this blog into another all-cats-all-the-time page. I'm sure there are some great stories out there, heh, but I didn't want to be litterbox-holed into a crazy cat lady, and I have no intention of doing that. But my particular felines, whom I lovingly refer to as The Nocturnal Bastards are truly special, very, very weird, and a constant source of entertainment and aggravation. The later two descriptions being interchangeable on a daily basis.
Therefore I will now regale you with endless tales of life with cat. s. You have been warned.
There are a myriad of whacky things the kooks do that I'll mention from time-to-time. Really cute things like walking across my guts at 5 a.m. and drinking my diet coke with a paw fresh from the shitbox. And like all pet owners who are also crazy, I have a million clever and high-larious nicknames sure to cause your head to nod with solidarity, you closet cat lover cowards. But today I'm particularly exacerbated about the rudest, most horrible, disgusting, annoying, continuous crappy thing I have to deal with and that I did not sign up for.
The puking. All the puking! All the GOD. DAMN. PUKING!!
What is it with cats and barfing? Seriously? Is this some form of reverse evolution going on or have we ruined kitty's digestion tract with processed food in the shape of little fish that smells like fermented shit and motor oil? Is this revenge for depriving them of the rotting roadkill, lizard tales and long strands of brightly colored ribbon they really desire to eat?
I mean, I know animals are inherently gross. They eat crap and sniff assholes and lick, everything. I can understand how they'd occasionally ingest something that would have a hard time making it all the way through, since they use their tongues like we use our fingers. Puke is my kryptonite. So when it comes to the fair percentage of nastiness I should have to deal with, I got screw-hoo-hoo-hoo-hewd.
My cats are sisters. I saved them from being sent to a sure death since my neighbor had gotten knocked up, was single, and had enough on her plate. She didn't want to deal with 2 cats who shed the equivalent of a metric ton per year. If I didn't take them they were off to the pound, and most likely the gas chamber. I couldn't let that happen so I agreed to take them. I should have known something was amiss when she brought me their stuff and it contained my very own puke spatula. WTF? And without getting too graphic, the one and only time I used "the spatula" I had to drop it mid scrape and relieve myself of my dinner into the kitchen sink.
I was a naive new owner. I'd had cats before, but they never acted like these freaks. And they didn't need special apparati to clean up body fluids. I also didn't realize the fuckers would spend the entire day I was at work eating my plants. That in turn made them very sick and I was greeted by a floor covered with green and foamy landmines covering my living room. The hell? Did Godzilla explode in here? Nice.
I figured out the plant thing, the kitties recovered and I thought all was well. One blessed day of barfless bliss. Then, in the middle of the fucking night, after I've finally fallen asleep, I'm woken in the middle of the fucking night by that unmistakable sound like non other, in the middle of the fucking night. The noise that only comes from the belly of the beast and the bowels of hell.
HORK HORK HORK HORK HORK HORK.
Jesus H on a hocky stick! Is she leaning over a fucking microphone? How in the hell can something that weighs 10 pounds make that sound?
I jump out of bed thinking a giant is stomping through the house only to find the cats head spining completely around and the contents flying across the carpet at bullet speed. My eyes are wide as saucers, my hand clasped tightly over my threatening-to-gag mouth. She daintily licks her lips, looks at me like, "what?", then saunters past me as if the hurl holocaust didn't just happen in the hallway. And did I mention? IT WAS THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING NIGHT!
There are certain things I don't mind doing on my hands and knees at 3 a.m. Cleaning cat puke it not one of them.
Ahh, ignorance is such bliss. I thought those first few weeks were a fluke. That maybe it was an adjustment period thing. I took the Super Puker to the vet, at the tune of $300, only to find out they don't know why she throws up half the time she eats. Yes, HALF. Why thank you medical professional. Thank you for letting me enjoy my Saturday chasing and tackling a frantic cat, spending 10 bloody minutes trying to stuff her into a carrier box and stop my wounds from bleeding, then listening to her pathetically wail for an hour. Having her poked with needles and fingers, so you can tell me, "hrm, I don't know." Cuz that was super! And I don't even want to know how you got the urine sample.
In the end, It's been a year and a half of fun and frolic. The one cat pukes almost every day. Yes. Every. God. Damn. Day. I've all gotten used to it and I have the carpets regularly cleaned. It's now my norm. And sometimes I even sleep through it.
HORK.
They might look cute and innocent, but let me tell you...watch the knives.
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