This pretty much sums up my current living situation:
I have described myself as a dog person. Dogs are dependable, trustworthy and loyal. I know what to expect from dogs. I understand their language and their behavior, and I’ve come to expect the love I provide my dogs will be returned to me three-fold, at least. I get dogs. I understand them. They make sense. I know what to do when they’re bad. I know how to discipline them, how to take care of them, how to let them know what, exactly, I expect from them.
But the cat. The cat is a cat. She’s different. Her behavior is not any sort that I could ever try to understand, nor predict. You pick her up, she purrs and then, without warning she is biting and clawing and ripping at your flesh with her devil-cat teeth. In the night, she attacks our feet and sometimes our faces. She thinks fingers are personal play things. She bites ankles and toes and has an amazing talent for walking across keyboards and selectively hitting keys that corrupt and destroy computers. She lurks beneath chairs and couches, waiting for you to pass so she can launch herself, full speed, at your feet and then scamper off to some undisclosed kitty lair.
She went from this cute, fuzzy, little baby kitty:
To this box-eating, broom-chasing, razor-blade factory of hatred and orange fur:
I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THIS CAT. She sticks her feet in our water glasses, begs worse than any dog I’ve ever had, chases the dogs around the house, attempts to commit suicide on a daily basis by sticking her cat body into Sadie’s food bowl while Sadie is trying to eat and by chewing on any sort of cord she can get her little orange and white paws around. She stalks us. She climbs pant legs, attacks our arms, hair and feet when we attempt any sort of floor-bound exercise. She wakes us up with incessant meowing after she’s been banished to “her” room (my office) in the middle of the night after several failed murder attempts against Andrew and I. She knocks things over for sport – especially water glasses and small, important things that shouldn’t be knocked over – and has a deep love of hairbands, whether they’re on the table or around my wrist, this cat DOES NOT CARE, she will bite at them irregardless of their proximity to my body.
I like to tell her, when she gets all homicidal-like, about that one time when I saved her life, about how I bottle fed her and did not sleep for weeks because I was so obsessed with keeping her little bitch-ass alive that I would wake up in the middle of the night, convinced she was dead, and use my cell phone as a flash light to check on her tiny sleeping body in the cat carrier next to the bed. She does not care. She is not thankful. She acts like we’ve never, ever, ever done anything nice for her and that any small charity on our part was deserved because clearly, in her kitty opinion, she is the best thing since sliced fucking bread.
And she’s smart. She knows she’s got to at least provide a little bit of love to us if she wants to remain a spoiled brat-cat. So she purrs at us, and licks our faces sometimes, and snuggles up at night and takes glorious kitty naps spread across our laps, and she makes us laugh all the damn time. She makes the house fun. We love her, really, even though she always reverts back to devil-cat mode.
I knew she would be a cat. I held no grand illusions that she would stay little and adorable forever. I knew she would grow up. What I did not know is that she would turn into a homicidal maniac hellbent on spending all her waking hours attempting to destroy us, terrorizing all the non-kitty contents of this whole entire house.
Send help. And advice on how to survive kitten attacks. Also, band-aids.