Tuesday, February 22, 2011

It's a Chickadee Suicide

Yup. We've come to the point of the show where the lady talks about her cat. And it would be worth skipping over (at this point I still can't guarantee that it's not) if you didn't know some things about me. This cat right here, this is Kiki. We are roommates except that she does not help with the bills.

A few things:
1. I really, really hate it when people like their pets too much. Let me rephrase that, actually. If someone likes their pet, I think that's great. I think more people should have more things in their lives that they're not indifferent to. It gives us reasons to wake up in the morning. It's nice. But what I hate is when people try to impose their appreciation for their animals on me. You know what I'm talking about?
"I'm not really a dog person."
"Oh! Then you've never met my dog.* He's huge, sure. But he won't hurt you."
"He's licking me and he has this mucusy drool that's actually ruining my pants."
" No. No, fluffy."
" He weighs 112 lbs and he's humping my leg and I am trying to be polite, here."
"Yeaaah. Isn't he so sweet and loving? Who's my big lovey doggy? It's you! It's Fluffy the Bull Mastif. Yes. It. Is." And then ever so seriously, "He's blind in one eye. Cataracts. It's too bad."

We can be friends if you're open to the idea that I might not be thrilled with the idea of your dog putting his/her face all over me. I mean, I get it. You probably don't want my cat to stick her ass in your face. It might happen, but you can push her off the couch. I don't care. From what I can tell, she doesn't care either.

2. I don't even like cats! I know, it's hard to tell because since I moved in (about a year and a half ago), I've had two. I'm much more a dog-person because dogs are not bitches except when they are. In all actuality I'm much more a fish person. Hell, not even that. I really don't like having things to depend on me. This is why I'll never seriously consider motherhood. I mean... can you imagine it? I'm such a terrible candidate for pets. I've had this yet-to-be-named orchid for a week and I think it's still alive. That's only because it gets "watered" once a week and I haven't had an opportunity to forget, yet.

Here's how my last pet experience went, I said "Maybe I should get a cat." And then a cat materialized in my life. This cat was fucking crazy, you guys. For starters, he pee'd everywhere (and this is where people all say, 'Yeah, boy cats do that.' As if that's okay?!) He was cute, sure. He had the best name ever, yeah. His name was Hammond. Yes, directly named after Richard Hammond. I had hopes of teaching him to drive. I couldn't even teach him to not barf all over every difficult to clean surface in my home. He did, however, teach himself to open drawers and pull out my toilet paper and shred it. He had claws. Claws, I tell you! Did I mention that he was fucking crazy? I mean mad insane. It was like if whats-his-name-the-butcher from Gangs of New York and Edward Scissorhands joined themselves and added fur. And I have some permanent scars from him. One on my neck and one in an area that few men have dared to go--how that cat even got access to this region is still a mystery to me.
Now, we were just finally coming to an understanding. I was learning that if I left soft things like blankets or laundry on the floor, he would piss all over it. So I was cleaning up after myself--it was getting to be alright. I could get over the fact that he had claws. I couldn't bring myself to actually have him de-clawed, but I was getting pretty good at deflecting his destructive habits. In short, we were in a relationship where he did whatever he wanted but I came to a point where I just put up with it. It was abusive is what it was. I could even get over the fact that he was kind of a rapist but I could not get over the following situation:
I woke up one morning, bright, early. I laid in bed and smiled. It would be a lovely day. And then I heard it--the familiar sound of liquid landing on something. But what? I turned on the light and searched the floor--it was spotless, where could that cat be? Where was he?
And then I saw it. He had opened the drawer to my dresser. He was standing in my clean, folded and put away laundry (do you know what a feat it is for a person to wash, dry, fold and then put away her own laundry without her mother telling her to?!) and, yes, there was urination occurring. It was all I could do to not fly into an abusive rage. So in a just-short-of-abusive manner, I screamed and threw (read: lightly tossed) him outside. I couldn't take it anymore. Under the cover of night, we took him to the humane society. Last I heard, they still couldn't find a home for him. I guess he just lives there, now, with all his slicy and dicy rage. I had a good level of guilt about it for quite some time. Until I got over it.

Now Kiki lives with me. Kiki used to belong to my nieces and nephew until Amos started getting pretty physical with her and my sister-in-law decided that it was time that Kiki found another place to live lest she be accidentally and lovingly murdered to death. She's lived with them for years and so I took her. I didn't want to. I was not excited about having another feline in my presence. Hammond--he had burned me bad.

Turns out, though. Kiki is my kind of dog. I tell her that all the time, anyway. "Kiki, you're the best gog I've ever had." She really never comes out of her cozy spots unless she's hungry. She doesn't need me to pet her all of the time. When I watch movies, she will sit on the other side of the couch and will sometimes look at me and rarely, she will put her paw up on my leg. In short, she's real good at being a boyfriend.
When people come over she gets excited, though. She likes to entertain and she does that thing where she gets you to like her, to pet her, and then she shows you her asshole and ruins it all. Seriously, that's a mood killer. But, really, if that's as bad as it gets--I can deal with that if you can. She doesn't even get mad when I forget to feed her sometimes. Not like the nameless orchid.

Anyway, I told you all of that to create padding for this story:
My cat is sitting on the diningroom table where I am sitting here with my computer. She's watching the little birdies in the tree. They're not really flying away, they're dropping out of the tree. Like a little mass chickadee suicide. They're reminding me of Mr. Mastadon Farm. And the cat is so excited that she's staring intently and whipping her tail so hard that my empty coffee cup fell off the table. That is all.

I love you.

*People say this all the time about anything.
"I don't want to get involved in a church."
"Oh, well you've never been to my church!"

"I don't really like green beans, much."
"Oh, well then you've never tried my green bean casserole. It's got this cream of mushroom soup..."

"I hate the dentist."
"Oh, well then you've never been to my dentist. One trip to him and you'll be begging for a root canal."


Sarah said...

Excellent call on the CAKE, sister! Would you go to their concert with me if they ever came close enough? I like Kiki. I'm also very sleepy. That is why this comment is disjointed.

Libby Marie said...

In a small enough venue, I could probably handle it. The band I could deal with--it's the fans that would scare the crap out of me.

Curly-T said...

So, if I can ever get rid of Toby (who is generally ok, for a cat, but seriously has days where I wouldn't mind at all if he dissappeared), I would take Kiki. Because she does sound like the perfect cat, what every cat should be - unneedy and cozy.
And Hammond. Wow. That is incredible. You were right to get rid of him (not that you need to hear it from me).

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