Rescued From Draftland: Cat Problem

I have a problem with the cats.

In general I rather like cats, which is good, we have three.

(Well she’s a year and a half older now so she only is willing to be smothered in love for so long and then she bites Jane on the nose. But that’s a whole ‘nother problem.)

There is this one that is still young and cute and willing to be smothered in Jane’s love on a daily basis.

There is this one that is aloof and completely uninterested in me but causes minimal trouble and loves Ivy.

There is this one, my favorite one, that comes every night and crawls in bed with me and purrs for an hour while I read.

For all I like cats I’ll admit that they come with a pile of unsavory things. Litter boxes, food stealing, hair that sticks to everything, kittens that climb legs as though they were trees, tripping you as you walk down stairs and their continued insistence on seeing if Louie the Dove might taste as good as he looks.

I’ll forgive them for all those things because of the purrs and the snuggles and the way they love the kids.

But there is one thing, I’m just not sure I can get over. Sometimes, when they meow it sounds uncannily like “Mom.”

This is not okay.

At.

All.

Three girls calling, sighing, yelling, screaming, sobbing, demanding, pleading, and asking “Mom!” all day is plenty.

I’m quite sure the cats are smarter than they let on (for instance, I know that they know that they aren’t supposed to jump on the counter, they just don’t care that I know that they know.  Got that?).

So when a cat meows, “Mom!” at me it shouldn’t act so surprised and affronted when I round on it with a giant, fed up, “WHAT?!?”

Yes, I have a problem with the cats.

I just haven’t decided if it’s because they are demanding me by name now too or that I’m demanding answers of them.

Either way, it’s a problem.

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My Water

I had a glass of water until a cat took it.

Unlike a dog there were no liquid eyes begging for a drink.

The cat just claimed my water glass and dared me to oppose her.

Brazenly, sitting on the table, repeatedly dunking her paw and licking it off. 

As if there weren’t multiple bowls of water for the cats and dogs scattered around the house.

I had a glass of water. 

And then a cat took it.

All I Want For Christmas…

Is it too late?

Can I still ask Santa for something special?

All I want for Christmas is an oven mitt, or even a nice pot holder.

Picture the scene.

It’s late evening, the kids are packing their bags and getting ready for the last day of school before Christmas break. We have been blessed with an early Christmas miracle and they are all getting along. John is in the back of the house wrapping presents and I am in the kitchen baking cookies. Christmas carols are cheerfully playing, the tree is lit, the animals are peacefully snoozing on their respective couches. The timer beeps and I reach into the oven to remove another pan of cheerful looking holiday cookies for Jane’s birthday snack and then…

“@!%$*# CATS!!!”

Pans crash, cats scatter under my gaze of fury, dogs jump up, kids and John come running as a stream of language that probably landed me on the naughty list for good runs out of me as I cool my burned thumb under running water.

The problem you see is that the cats – specifically this cute monster –

… have eaten holes in the thumbs of all our oven mitts.

Holes that make it seem like you should still be able to use the oven mitt – but you shouldn’t, you really, really shouldn’t.

Unfortunately after I burned my thumb and our kids’ ears, I doubt Santa is going to deliver.

But I wonder… do you think he’d trade for a cat?

Be The Person Your Cat Thinks You Are

I saw a sign today that said “Be the person your cat thinks you are.”

We have three cats that live in our house so I feel as though I can say, with some authority, that this is a terrible idea.

You might suspect the cats think I am their jailer (they are indoor cats) and, since I hold them hostage, I am also obligated to clean up after them, feed them and provide them with a safe environment to live in.

This is not the kind of person I’ve ever endeavored to be. Fortunately, I don’t think it’s how my cats see me either. Unfortunately, if you polled the cats I’m pretty sure you would find they actually think they are the warring queens of the household where they deign to live because, with nothing more than a swish of their tail and a well timed purr, me, their royal slave, will provide them with all their needs.

This includes (but is not limited to) meals with not only their own food but other choice tidbits as well (Translation: I feed them and they steal people food whenever the chance arises). Royal slaves are, as a matter of course, also expected to keep the castle clean enough or the queens will show their displeasure in a royal tantrum (Translation: If I don’t keep the litter boxes clean they’ll use my closet). All the catty queens must surely be treated as such and will only sleep in the warmest coziest areas (Translation: If there is no sunbeam on my bed on a cold day they’ll sleep on the computer’s keyboard and with a few well placed paws lock things up so it’ll take me three days to fix it). Finally it goes without saying that an out right order from slave to queen is out of the question and even a mild suggestion as to behavior is likely to be met with utter disdain (Translation: I have never managed to teach a cat manners).

I really, don’t ever, want to actively try to be the person my cats think I am and despite the sign urging me to do so, I can’t imagine why anyone else would want to either. My only conclusion is that cats are behind the creation of these signs in their never ending quest to take over the world.

But…

I’m going to let this girl under the covers to snuggle with me tonight when she comes asking…

…their plan is totally working.

 

The Lion in the Living Room by Abigail Tucker

I live with three cats. Or perhaps it’s that I provide housing and food for three cats and also manage to have a life on the side – it’s hard to say with cats.

Since the newest one just climbed, claws out, up my back over my shoulder only to come to rest on my lap and arm and is now impeding my typing, it seems safe to point out that while I love my cats, I’m not always sure why I love my cats. 

The woman who wrote this book also loves cats but wasn’t really sure why, as whole, we love cats either. She researched the conundrum from ancient Egypt to the Internet with forays into parasitology and ecology and still isn’t quite sure.

Would I recommend it? Yes! Because even if you don’t like cats (possibly particularly if you don’t like cats) you want to know how they were used in medieval torture, the ecological devastation they have wrought around the world and how they affect our health.