One of my goals in life is to become a crazy cat lady. I have four of them, and they practically rule my life. I’d have more, but my husband seems to think we have plenty, so when I collect his life insurance, the first thing I’m going to buy is kittens. I recently realized something embarrassing about my cat fetish. It’s not that I have baskets of cat toys everywhere. It’s not that every single thing I own is covered in hair. It’s not that I almost no longer throw up when I open the tub of nasty bonita flakes. It’s not even that I think nothing of spending $7 on a tiny little tub of kitty hooch, because that’s their favorite.
I have 34 pictures of cats in my phone. THIRTY-FOUR. A couple of them aren’t even my cats. I have this bad habit of stopping at the Humane Society and taking pictures of adorable kittens and sending them to my husband. You know, the one that doesn’t want anymore cats.
My oldest cat is an evil, evil, evil Siamese. I’m pretty sure that Garcia’s father is none other than Satan himself, because she is horrible. She’s a biter and a scratcher, and if you look at her too long, she’ll leap at your face and try to remove your eyes. It’s not often an issue, because her eyes are so pale, they’re almost white, and looking at them makes grown men cry for their mommies. She’s no longer allowed in the house, because we feared that we’d be brought up on child abuse charges if we had to take the kids to the hospital to have their scratched off limbs reattached every couple of days.
Spot is my sweet, little tabby. She’s the one that always want to snuggle on a warm lap, or curl up next to my stomach while I’m sleeping. She has a kinked tail and a chain smoker’s raspy meow. She likes to ride around the house on the shoulder of any available person. She’s pees on the kids dirty clothes if they don’t put them in the laundry basket. (once a year UTI’s that we treat). Who doesn’t like a cat that reminds kids that their mother isn’t a maid?
I also have Jasper. He’s from a feral litter and wasn’t socialized early enough. He loves me so much that I think he’d live in my skin if he could. He tolerates the kids, especially my daughter, since she’s my mini me. He hates my husband and will only go near him when bribed with tons of treats. No one else ever sees him, so people refer to him as my imaginary cat. He is my big cuddly baby and my shadow.
I have one more cat, Sylvester, who has an even more special place in my phone. He’s the one I like to capture on video, because he’s the one that mastered walking on the treadmill. I have to lock him out of the room if I’m on the treadmill, because he’ll try to join me. He was hiding in there the other day and nearly killed me when he tried to jump on at a speed that is way to fast for his stubby legs.
I should probably go clear out the memory card of my phone before my kids realize that I have 3 times as many cat pictures as kid pictures. And those kid pictures? Most of them aren’t of MY kids. Do you think they’ll need therapy? (the kids, not the cats)