The best part about writing this, is that I have locked myself into my office/laundry room so the cats will leave me alone. The door to the rest of the house is pane-glass, so the cats can totally see me and aren’t happy. They know I’m in here and they don’t like it one bit. They are scratching at the door. It’s that thing they do when they stand on their hind legs and just let their front legs go wild, like they’re trying to swim up the wall. They can do this for hours. And hours. I tried to time them once. I ran out of steam before they did. Here’s one of them now, staring at me forlornly:
But even with the cats scratching on the door, it’s still better than the cats being in the room with me. I love my cats. But seriously. They are like retarded two-year olds. And I’m saying that in the kindest, most politically correct way that I can imagine. In that, I mean my cats act like they are developmentally disabled two-year old human beings. In other words, they act like they don’t understand the meaning of the word “NO.” They can’t handle rejection, they can only think about what they want rightnowibetterhaveitormywholeworldwillcrumbleintoatinylittleballofpain. That’s what I’m pretty sure is running through their heads when they do stuff like scratch at the door for two hours nonstop. But unlike normal two-year old people, my cats will NEVER ever grow out of this phase. They will never learn empathy, they will never learn delayed gratification. They may learn that waking me up at 5:30 am does not result in anything useful, and so out of sheer instinct they may eventually learn to stop doing that. God. One can only hope.
But for now, the cats are just developmentally disabled two-year olds. Which brings me back to my original point. That I’m locked in the laundry room. And you might be wondering if it wouldn’t be better to just let the damn cats into the laundry room with me so that they will stop scratching at the door and I can write in peace. Right? Wrong.
Anyone who has cats will understand why it is better to have the cat scratching at the door than in the same room with you when you are trying to accomplish anything valuable. Reading a newspaper? No. That’s actually a toy you’re reading. Trying to type on the computer? No. That’s actually a cat bed you’re typing with. Trying to take a nap? Well tough nuts because you’re actually napping in the middle of AMAZINGKITTYFUNHAPPYPLAYTIMELAND. (I’ve drawn an illustration to demonstrate here what I think may be going through my cats’ brain when they do some of the things they do)
Is that your face you’re trying to breathe out of while taking your ill-advised nap? No. It’s actually the best place in the whole entire world to lay on at this particular moment. Is that a full bladder that you’re trying to ignore so you can sleep in a few minutes longer? No, it’s actually a trampoline. Is that your backpack under the bed? Well, actually you’d be mistaken in thinking so because I’ve been using it as a nest for the last 3 months and you can thank me later for the two-inch layer of fur I’ve accumulated there in that time.
But despite my cats being crazy, disruptive, and at times insufferable, I love them like a crazy mother bear loves her cubs. Why? I don’t know. If I knew I’d probably shut it off so I could put the little trouble makers in a box every night and not feel a drop of guilt about sleeping a full 8 hours at their expense. But then, I would be one of those assholes that attends dog fights for entertainment and thinks it’s OK to abuse animals. Which I’m not.
See that’s the thing about my cats. They are really really really good at tricking me into loving them and thinking they are cute little animals that deserve love and attention and food and water. You see, I’m the kind of crazy person who loves cats. I hate their guts every morning when they wake me up well before my alarm does. And I’m madly in love with them every day when I come home from work because in reality retarded cats are usually better company that other people anyway.
– Girl Normal