I don’t get it. Where all the kitty stoolies come from. I feed them. I see what they eat. Are they pooping out vital organs? Do they covertly eat dog food? Raid the refrigerator? They’re doing something behind my back. A great conspiracy to ensure my life forever revolves around poop. Sure, the kid’s learning to take a dump on the potty, but rest assured I’ll be cleaning up ass goblins for the next 15 years.
Little Murray Sparkles is our newest addition, and actually quite pleasant. Our older cat…He’s a dick. I’ve known him since 2005, and my affection has only grown because I’m a little scared of him.When I moved in with Jed, he had a cat. A kitten, really. Some feral beast his buddy had found in a parking lot. Jimmy the Balls. And yes, they were ginormous. A quick neutering changed the name to Jimmy no Balls, which is both amusing and rather sad. He knows now that he’s lacking his manhood. That’s why he’s such an asshole. Wouldn’t you be?
So he eats. He eats all day. Jimmy barges into every room, at all hours, apparently seeking out food. Meowing and searching under beds, behind dressers in the darkest recesses of the closets. Searching. At least three of four times a night, he goes mad, pawing at the Kaiser’s bedroom door ostensibly looking for more nutrition (Lord knows, he doesn’t like any of us and isn’t trying to be buddies with the kid.)
When I wake, I feed Jimmy first. Before making coffee. Before peeing. Before pouring the Kaiser’s juice. The cat must be fed, else the little demi-god will try to bite my toes. He runs (waddles) down the stairs, stops at the bottom and eyes me as I sleepily trudge toward him. As I walk to the kitchen, he meows incessantly and headbutts me. He gets to the cabinet (that I keep locked, truly, because of the cats and not the kid) and pushes it with his gigantic paw.
Yeah, I’m a little weary of the cat. He’s kinda creepy, the way he stares me down. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find a little kitty-created voodoo doll hidden under the guest bed. He prolly trolls kitty forums all day, in search of new and creative ways to piss me off. Cats are smart. Smart and evil.
He poops a lot. It’s irritating as hell. More times than not, I clean the litter box and turn around to find No Balls behind me, just waiting to climb back in and take another human-sized caca. They’re massive. Bigger than my logs. And the smelliest. Ever. When he poos upstairs, the smells waifs down. Instantaneously. The fucker is likewise incapable of covering his own dookie. Most cats, Jed tells me, make a little dookie-doo and then paw some clean litter over their bidness. Not Jimmy. He takes a Tom Tit, looks at it and shuffles away.
I’m putting him on a diet. It’s his New Year’s resolution, as decided by me, his loving and primary caretaker. I’m buying some really high-quality, expensive cat food (supposed to make them eat less, because it’s more nutritious or some junk) and limiting his intake to whatever the food guidelines are. Yes, he may try to kill me in my sleep, but I’d rather doze with one eye open than continue living with his massive butt nuggets.
(“Shit” variations in this blog: 14)