So we all know my cat, The Cat (TC), is a bit of an ass. Not just a bit, actually. Around these parts, he is known as a jerkwad. It’s kind of his second nickname.
I know. He looks so cute and innocent. It is an act, all designed to fool those of the outside word into thinking he is nothing but a fuzzy-faced angel. I admit, even I am fooled sometimes. He’ll walk up to me, all quiet mews and low purrs, rub against my legs, make me think he might let me touch him, and then wham! I’ve got a cat tooth stuck in my thumb.
Of course, we all know his story. We all know I am the evil interloper who dared infiltrate his quiet abode, the horrid female who dared intervene in the spoiled thing he had going with my PH. What he won’t tell you is that he met me as a teeny kitten, that I have been this dark presence in his life since he was barely two months old. Ten years later, you’d think he’d be over it.
But I digress. The purpose of this post is not to question his sinister motivations. It is to recount his latest acts of jerkwadiness.
1. The squalling has gotten to a new low. He squawks at me for everything these days, to refill the water bowl I filled ten minutes ago, to top up the over-loaded dish of cat food, to give him treats, to lift up the foot rest of the Lazy Boy, to give him more treats, to open the bathroom door so he can stare at me while I shower, to watch him clean himself, and – most often – to go outside. I like to think I have increased my level of patience since adopting Shiva, but there is only so much guttural meowing a human can take. I am tempted to record it for you so you can sympathise with my pain. Rest assured, I like you too much to put you through that.
2. HIs fur. I know, it isn’t his fault he has too much fluff. That’s just genetics. However, it is his fault when he chooses to brush it all over the bottoms of my pants hanging in the closet. I adore finding gobs of sticky orange fuzz all over my cuffs before getting dressed for work in the morning. That must be what he thinks. Either that or he is a jerkwad, you decide. (Please note, he doesn’t do this to my PH’s pants.)
3. He is increasingly bold with Shiva. Not that she does anything to stop him. In the span of an hour he managed to trap her in the bathroom – again – and then had the guts to eat a piece of her kibble out of her bowl while she was eating from the other side! What cat does this? Clearly he is far too confident. Someone needs to take control and apparently it isn’t going to be the dog.
4. He has a pathological obsession with my shoes that is sinking to new levels. No one needs to see that Cat, no one.
5. He destroyed the frame of the boot room door. For no reason. Just because he could? Maybe because I didn’t let him outside at midnight to meet his pals? Maybe because I care too much about him getting eaten by coyotes? Jerk. Wad.
6. As if I need another, right? Yet, it doesn’t end. TC has also taken to begging for food. Every morning when I eat my breakfast, be it cereal, toast, or a piece of fruit, he is right there demanding I give him a bite. Even Shiva has the decency to give me space. She knows the key to begging is laying on her mat, shooting me sidelong glances. The Cat? He shoves his face right in my Cheerios. This isn’t because he is hungry, don’t make that mistake. It isn’t even because he likes oaty o’s. He rarely eats anything, even when I generously attempt to share. He simply thinks he has the right to everything that is mine.
The nerve of such a cat! I tells ya. I had naively thought by his old age he’d be slowing down, maybe even start cuddling, you know, like normal, nice cats. Oh, how wrong I was.