Friday, May 13, 2011

Cats: Can't live with them, can't eat them

Well, truth be told, I could probably eat a cat. They're wiry little critters, with too little meat and too much muscle, but yeah - given enough time in the pot, I could eat one.

But why would I want to? Simple. My daughter's cat is driving me nuts. The only thing that saves its furry little hide is that it saved my daughter's life.

That sounds overly-dramatic, but it's true. When the psycho-ex walked out on us a couple of years ago, my little one was crushed. She didn't like the psycho much more than I did, but desperately wanted a stable family. My girl wanted parents who loved one another.

Truth be told, the psycho-ex and I could barely tolerate one another's presence. I tried, for my daughter's sake. I was polite. I didn't scream, nor rip the skin off the psycho's face. I wanted to, but I didn't. The psycho, on the other hand, began spending more and more time away from home. Overnight and week-long trips were not uncommon. When the psycho left in February 2009, both my daughter and I felt relief. Sure, it's tough taking care of a young one by my lonesome, but it was actually better for us.

Four months later, the divorce papers came. My daughter was crushed. She was glad the psycho was gone, but wanted that stable family. It was around that time that my daughter began pestering me for a cat.

I could see that she needed something in her life. She had a good counselor, but needed something more. I relented. We got the cat - four months old and as sweet as you'd want. My daughter insisted that the cat be an indoor cat, and again, I relented. I prefer outdoor animals, as they don't shit in the house. But like I said: The daughter needed something more than counseling. But therein lies the glitch.

The cat didn't have any feline role models to learn from, and the cat took to chumming around with my then 13-year old dog. The cat picked up dog behavior. That's fine in my dog - part chow, part huskie with a temperament to match - but annoying as hell in a cat.

Flash forward two years. My dog, now 15 years old, is having problems getting around. I have to hold the door open for extended periods to get him in and out of the house. Two days ago, I heard the beating of padded feet as I opened the door for my dog.

Zip! The damn "indoor cat" zoomed out the door as the dog waddled inside.

I hate that cat. I had to tell my daughter that her cat escaped and, no, I didn't know where it went.

Shit. Fuck. Damn.

The cat eventually came back, and I wanted to pluck out its eyes. But my daughter interceded.

This time, the thing that ran away, decided to come back.

I guess that's what counts.

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