I am not a cat person.
That’s not to say I don’t like cats, because I do. Sometimes. But I also like birds, dogs, horses, cows, not too crazy about chickens but that is fodder for another post much later, frogs, and most other critters that roam the planet.
But I’m not a “cat person.” This is not saying that I don’t appreciate kittens, because seriously, it’s hard to not love those little “chronovores.” Hours can disappear while you play with the little sprites and laugh at their antics.
Then they grow up and, well, become
Thor and Freya (a.k.a. Crash and Burn) were so adorable as kittens, sucking up time like it was tuna water, but by the time they came to live with me, they were mostly adult-ish and not so fun. And they learned they could pee in special places because the catbox was upstairs and offspring tend to neglect such amenities as litterboxes even when said box is making their private domain smell like, um, the ass end of a cat.
So we ended up getting a second litter box and putting it in the office. Near the bookcase.
Did you know, cats like to read in the pottybox, at least ours do, judging by all the magazines pulled off the shelves and into the litter. No matter how many times we remove their reading material, they find more to leave in there for us to find. National Geographic is a favorite, but they also managed to wrestle an atlas into the pan.
I do question this desire to familiarize themselves with the planet as they do their pooping. Are they dreaming of a litterbox the size of the Sahara? Of course, it wouldn’t matter how big the box, Thor STILL wouldn’t manage to bury his poop. He’s so stupid, he takes a dump, then climbs out of the box and begins digging AROUND the outside of the box. When he’s certain he’s done an adequate job, he turns and sniffs, wrinkles his nose at the still-unburied pile of crap, and starts the process all over again.
Such an activity will continue until someone gets tired of hearing, “dig-dig-dig-dig-dig-dig-dig-dig-dig-dig-dig…snifffff…dig-dig-dig-dig-dig-dig…” Lather, rinse, repeat… Once the breaking point has been reached, the humans will begin hissing and stomping, chasing his ridiculous furry ass out of the office.
And? The cats are longhairs, so that brings a whole new element of joy to the game. Long cat hairs in my coffee, my food, my eyes, my nose, my mouth, all over my clothes… Oh, and when they poop and it gets hung up on said long hairs, well, then it’s a very stinky monster and it’s chasing us all over the house. So we must run! Fast! And jump on all the furniture! And visit the clean laundry! And then our sibling must join in the merriment by mocking us for having a turd-monster hanging from our behind.
And then? We crash! Into something fragile or noisy, and we hiss and spit, and show our claws and teeth and pin our ears back and we STILL have a stinky turd-monster stuck to our butt only now we have a headache, too!
I like dogs. When the Ancient of Dogs was young and not too busy chewing baby Jesus’ sandals, she was a lot of fun. We’d go for walks, so she could check her pee-mail, and she’d play fetch. I miss playing fetch. These days, if I were to throw a ball at her (and if she even noticed it) she would give it a sniff, lick it once and then go back to sleep.
I’d really like a pony, or a couple of goats to keep the lawn looking good. Not that the neighbor boy didn’t do a good job of it. He’s cute in a teen male kind of way, but he’s not a cute furry animal who mows the lawn, trims the shrubbery, and fertilizes it as well. In fact, we appreciate the fact that he never did fertilize the lawn in any manner what so ever last year. Plus I had to pay him. Goats and ponies don’t take cash, they eat their pay.
As if the Bitch Fairy neighbor didn’t already hate us enough, I can only imagine what having livestock in my yard would do to her hair-do.