I hate cats.
I hate their smug condescension,
and their “you’re fortunate if I just let you breathe the same air I breathe” attitude.
I hate that their fur sticks to everything they touch,
and that they feel obliged to touch everything . . .
Climbing onto countertops, tables, shelves,
and anywhere else that they can gracefully leap upon.
No space, it seems, is too small for their paws to find room upon which to maneuver.
And believe me,
I have tried to dissuade them of this habit,
but everything I have done has only left them laughing at me behind my back at my, in their opinion, rank incompetence.
In particular, I hate how my cats feel obliged to show me their displeasure when I don’t empty their litter box according to their schedules,
preferring at those times to leave me little, stinky presents right beside the box rather than in it.
And, mind you, this is no regular litter box . . .
It is three times the size of store-bought boxes.
There is enough room in it for them to leave their refuse for days without poop or piss clumps ever touching each other,
and yet their delicate sensibilities are offended if I go more than 24 hours without cleansing the vast wasteland in which they do their business.
Who do they think are, I wonder?
What gives them the right to make my life a living hell?
They’re just cats, I say to myself,
all the while knowing that these spawn of Satan are so much more than mere house pets.
They have been sent here expressly by the ruler of the underworld to torment me and make my limited time here on earth as miserable as is possible.
And they will not rest from their labors “until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes and the fever of” my life is over,
or until I kill them (whichever comes first).
So why, you may ask, do I have two of these loathsome creatures?
Four words explain this:
my lovely daughter Desiree,
for whom I would do just about anything,
even care for and love two cats that I absolutely abhor.