I accidentally adopted a cat who is a psychopathic asshole.
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
Let me tell you how this travesty occurred.
I’ve been in the market for a new kitty for some time. For various reasons, each time I thought I’d found one, it fell through. You’d think kittens were gold the way I couldn’t get my greedy, ready-to-pet hands on one.
Finally, an animal shelter only 50 miles away posted on Facebook that they were “overflowing” with kitties. I was ecstatic. They only wanted a bag of cat food in exchange for one kitten, spayed or neutered. I called them to verify this outrageous claim and was assured it was true.
They did not mention the ridiculous hoops you have to jump through in order to adopt a pet from a shelter.
My first stop was a pet store to get the aforementioned cat food and also stock up on other pet supplies and kitten needs. While I was there, I met a vaguely rough looking little black furball who was there visiting from another shelter. Though I liked her persistent attitude, I had a plan and I was determined to stick to it.
After getting lost and driving in circles for approximately 45 minutes, I finally found the shelter. They eagerly took my cat food and let me play with the kittens, but when I inquired about taking home a demure little grey lady, they informed me that I needed my other pets vaccination records, a letter from my veterinarian, and my left pinky toe to make the transaction complete.
I was heartbroken.
On my way home I decided to take another look at the kitties at the pet store on the off chance that their rules weren’t as rigorous and they had one who liked me.
As I walked into the store, the shelter people were putting her in a carrier. I held her and petted her and she crawled up around my neck like a cat scarf. I concluded that it was meant to be. Fate had led me to her, in Fate’s usual fucked up, roundabout way.
These shelter people were eager to find homes for their cats, and even tried to get me to take more than one. You’re welcome, Husband. I left with one cuddly kitty in a box, excited to share her sweetness with my family.
I was a little concerned that she did look rough – kind of like an alley cat, but she curled so sweetly around my neck that I decided it was because she had led a rough kitty life and in her new home she would no doubt thrive.
This is a crazy cat scarf.
I had no idea that she would thrive at the expense of the rest of us. Now that we are home, she has shown her true colors.
She is a complete nutcase. She has terrible gas and farts in my lap with impunity.
I cannot write or draw or sew or do anything with my hands without being attacked.
She chews on me as if I were a piece of beef jerky.
Jesus Christ, Cat.
She will NOT stay off the table, and she has cowed my other cat completely. Suzanne eats first, she shits first, and she has first choice of napping area.
Crazy Eyes has taken over our home. Even my husband can’t stand against her, and every morning I find her sleeping on his face. I try to teach her right from wrong, but she refuses to learn. She chews on cords. She sneezes in my face. She walks on wet paint and my computer keyboard. She ate the letter “d” off my laptop.
I flick water on her when she gets on the table and that seemed to work for awhile, but now when I do it, she just licks it off and goes about her business. On the table.
I think she knows I’m writing this because right now she is curled in my lap like the sweetest little thing you ever saw. She hasn’t bitten me once since I started typing. She may be reading my thoughts.
sleepy kitty, get out of my head
We Don't Chew Glass 