Is Bozemama a Crazy Cat Lady?
September 13, 2013
Posted By: Bozemama
Um. Is it bad that I hate my cats? Oh my god. They’re not even my cats, they’re my kids’ cats. They are the cats of my children. And I hate them. Every once in a while, I feel some kind of ushy-gushy-primal-squeezy aggressive love for them, but I mostly hate them. My name is Bozemama and I hate the cats that live with me.
There. I said it. But I don’t feel any better.
In fact I might even feel worse, but I don’t know what else to do. I’m bitter and tormented and, even though I often tell this to those cats, they don’t really care or even listen.
Here’s what happened. In 2011, Hermione decided that all she ever wanted ever again for the rest of her whole entire life was a kitten for Christmas. Awww . . . She even drew up (and signed) a contract promising that she would care for it, feed it, pay for its care, clean its litter box, and on and on. Her dad, who – since the day I met him – has been an ardent and feverish anti-cat-ite (you know, because of the millions of songbirds they kill – the songbirds!), he relented, and that’s when I knew it was all over.
Next thing I know, we’re at the Heart of the Valley adopting two abso-freaking-lutely-painfully-adorable kittens. Seriously. The two most exquisite little kittens you ever saw: A little calico girl and her fuzzy black brother. Why two? I can’t recall exactly, but somewhere between the contract and the drive to the shelter, Charlie and Hermione convinced us that we needed two cats. Maybe because they each wanted one of their own; maybe so that the kittens could entertain each other and leave us in peace; maybe so that I could die in a haze of cat litter fumes and a puddle of my own misery . . . I can’t remember.
Anyway, we brought them home. And life has never been the same again.
Here’s why:
--They wake me up multiple times every single night by doing any of the following things alone or in any creative combination: a.) scratching incessantly at the sliding door to go outside; b.) clawing my exposed flesh; c.) sitting on my face and trying to suffocate me; d.) terrorizing each other in extremely loud voices.
--They somehow manage to remove my clothes from their hangers. How exactly they manage this, I can only guess, but it pisses me off.
--They have destroyed countless beloved belongings and house parts including, but not limited to, favorite scarves, oriental rugs, an antique desk, carpeting, screen doors, bedding, armchairs and much, much more.
--They try to escape every time I open the door to the outside, but I can’t let them (even though I really, really want to) because Heart of the Valley made us sign a contract (yup, see, another contract) that they would remain indoor cats. As a result, I can’t leave any doors open during the summer.
--They poop. Often. And it is the worst smelling stuff you could ever imagine. (OK, so those of you living with indoor cats probably have a sense of this paint-peeling odor.) It’s sour, hot and angry. And then, when the pooping process has been concluded, I get to gather it all up in a plastic bag or else be left blinded and scarred for life.
Help.
I had no idea it could be like this. I grew up with a passel of outdoor cats that somehow managed to let themselves (and their prey) in and out of the house at all hours of the day and night. Yes, I was sometimes awakened by the sound of my cat, Duke, crunching on some kind of songbird (!), which was gross but most definitely preferable to this . . . this hell I’m living.
The only thing that keeps me from sticking them in the microwave is just how damn beautiful they are. I wonder if this is how it feels to live with Brad Pitt? If only they weren’t so dangnabbity gorgeous. And soft. And clueless. I mean, truthfully, that’s the very worst part: They love me. They have no idea how much I hate them. They follow me around and escort me everywhere, even to the toilet, where they coil themselves around my legs and look up at me adoringly. Oh, who am I kidding? We’re stuck with each other, the cats and me. Like a crazy co-dependent couple that can’t live or with or without each other. My future as a loony cat lady is certain.
Just wish me luck, OK?
Kisses,
Bozemama
