You know, I never thought I’d be a cat owner. Yeah, I’ve said this before, but I’ve never been able to describe just why I felt this way until today. I stopped by Petco to pick up a bag of Science Diet for my pain-in-the-ass tabby named Tigger, and standing in line behind me was the answer to this question. He was an older gentleman with no less than 40 cans of some fancy ‘tastes like tuna’ cat food in his basket. While waiting for checkout I told him briefly about about my transition from owning dogs and how I learned to read my cat’s body language… to which he replied, “My cat and I understand each other perfectly. She rules the house, and she lets me know it every day.” He was serious. I wanted to slap him in the face like I was Don Corleone – What’s the matter with you!? Act like a man!! Comments like these always made me think that owning a cat was an experience just short of torture, but now that I’ve experienced it for myself, I’ve come to realize that my problem is with retarded cat owners and not with cats themselves…
Cats are independent – sure, I get that, but you mean to tell me you’re dominated by your own fucking pet? Seriously?? First of all, if a cat ruled my house, that would be a secret that I would reveal to absolutely nobody. I mean, what’s more pathetic than caring for an animal that, in turn, doesn’t respect your authority? Secondly, Tigger will never taste so much as a can full of that expensive shit. If he wants something that tastes like chicken, he’s welcome to climb his ass up an oak tree and catch a fucking bird. In fact, he can eat a whole variety of animals that roam the yards near my house. Possum, squirrel, my neighbor’s yip yap Pomeranian… anything he has enough fight in him to kill. If he loses the fight, he’ll walk away with eight more lives and a new respect for his weight class. If he wins, well, good for him. Bon appetit. He can stroll in all day long picking the remnants of his latest prize from his teeth, but if he so much as thinks of using his claws on my sofa he’ll be the one on the fucking menu…
During my conversation I also revealed that I think of my cat and myself as peers… which prompted another lady in line with me to say that this was all in my head. Errr, wrong, bitch. Yes, it’s true, I respect Tigger’s boundaries more than I thought I’d have to, but in the end, I’m the one writing the rule book. For example, he doesn’t like to be rubbed on his belly. That is non-fucking-negotiable for him, and when I first got him, touching his belly resulted in a cloud of scar-inducing claws. Okay, I get it — I won’t touch your belly… but we need to have a little chat about where it’s appropriate to use your claws. Trees? No problem. Your scratching pad? Good kitty! My arm? Bad fucking idea… and to break him of this habit, all I had to do was drink a six pack of Guinness. You see, Guinness nullifies pain and turns pissed off cats into amusing toys. It only took one alcohol-fueled therapy session to convince my cat that his claws are completely useless on me, and once I got that point across, the dynamics of the relationship changed for the better. Sure, it hurt like hell the next day… but scratches heal. My cat’s belief that I’m Chuck-fucking-Norris remains.
The other situation that people typically get wrong is when they bring prey to you. I have pet doors, and my cat can roam in and out as he pleases. Of course, this means that I can’t prevent him from jumping on my bed in the morning and surprising me with a shit-scared dove. Birds have a blank look on their face when they’re suspended from a cat’s mouth as if to say, “For fuck’s sake, just eat me will ya?” They don’t move or struggle or try to get away… they just relax and accept their fate. Most people would be shocked at such inhumane treatment of a peace loving creature, but not me. I’m like, “Hell yeah, Tigger! Seriously, how the hell did you do that!?” Think about it. Catching a bird with your bare hands is fucking amazing. If I was starving on a desert island and being attacked by seagulls, I couldn’t manage that… and you mean to tell me that this incredible feat should be met with a scolding?? I don’t think so. Cats have a natural instinct to hunt, and if you don’t respect that, what was the fucking point of getting a cat in the first place? Plus, who wants to own an animal that can’t take care of business when it’s required of them? Tigger is one tough hombre, and I’ll never do anything to discourage that. Live prey are released. Dead prey are cleaned up with a sponge and some Formula 409. Either way, Tigger has an open hunting license with no limit on the amount he’s allowed to catch… and that’s the way it should be.
In the end, I’ve come to the conclusion that cats are pretty cool pets. They can kick ass when they have to, and when they’re bored, they can perch atop a fence and look condescendingly down upon a furious German Shepherd below. I can totally relate to that. Tigger and I now coexist… kinda like friends as roommates. I have my rules, he has his, and we’ve learned to respect one another in a way that keeps the peace. You see, owning a cat is a give and take…
… it’s just too bad most cat owners don’t have the balls to call the shots.
More to come…
— Bingo