I have not successfully lived with a cat for 16 years now. When I was living with a cat, I was not living successfully with the cat. Nor the cats before that cat. I take responsibility for my malignant malfeasance. A marching band worth of cats tried to expose my lackadaisical cat care. I offer here counter-intelligence gathered in the deepest theater of espionage. Living with a cat.
The counter-intelligence secured from the cat:
“Can it. You didn’t bring me anywhere. I told you this is where I’m going.”
“Cute. So there’s a picture of a cat photoshopped with this glob called tuna delight and fresh herbs. What’s that got to do with me and my lunch?”
“You’re in my way.”
“You’re in my spot.”
“You’re still doing whatever that is. Stop it.”
“What? California King IS my size. And lineage. And you can have that fluffy doughnut marshmallow thing on the floor over there. I suppose there was a cat photoshopped with that thing, too.”
“Next time you think I want litter that changes colors stop thinking. It’s a rave in there every time I pee. I’ll be forced to pee under the sink now. You’ve left me no choice.”
“That mouse ran in here last night and dropped dead of a heart attack! I tried CPR! The entire incident has left me a shadow of myself! Where’s breakfast.”
“Only a plebeian would call my art a hair ball.”
“Laptop, lap. Splitting hairs isn’t going to get me off my massage table.”
“There is a dog laying in my 3:30 sun spot.”
“I may have, or may have not peed on the dog. I vaguely remember leaving a message on his bed. Was he in it?”
“The dog you brought in here sniffed my private place. You expect me to not retaliate?”
“Did you, by chance, see a dog photoshopped with a cat somewhere?”
I haven’t lived with a cat for 16 years now because I can not bring myself to ask such a thing from a cat, again. I also do not cook, for my husband’s sake. There are times when choosing the negative is the positive choice.
Ask any cat that knew me, they’ll tell you the same.