We have a cat. A horrid, terribly-behaved, mongrel of a black cat that just so happens to be my daughter’s entire reason for living and breathing. I have threatened this cat’s life so many times that I have lost count. And every single time I threaten the cat’s life, I can hear imaginary cash-register sounds ringing up in my head tallying the amount I will owe for future shrink bills because evidently this traumatizes my kid…who likes the cat.
Why did I ever bring this cat home, you may ask. I brought the thing home because at one time it was cute and fluffy, and it was a baby that purred and played, and it COULD HOLD ITS DAMNED BLADDER. Now it seems the only thing the cat litter box is good for is a stepping stool to boost said feline’s aging arse up to the windowsill so she can sit there and mock me as I come and go from my driveway.
We have figured out a few things that work fairly well. For example, she only pees on things that are on the floor. Great. Except for the fact that we also happen to have two 4-year-olds, so everything is on the floor. And even when we pick things up, more things end up on the floor. So I find myself going from zero to hysterical, suddenly shrieking things like, “So help me God, if I find one more sock on the floor, I will ban all socks from this house forevermore!” And stuff like that. Which is unreasonable. (Unless you have a sock-seeking-pee-missile of a cat, in which case, this is extremely reasonable.)
We have tried locking the cat in the bathroom, and before you go all freak-out animal activist on me, it’s a very nice bathroom with a nice window, and we’ve given up a lot of family space for the cat to have its own room with its own bed and food and box. So, essentially, we just made her a nice space in a smaller portion of the house, which just so happens to have a tiled floor. Bonus. I have since been lectured about this by my very concerned mother-in-law who is more than welcome to adopt the cat at any time, with my blessing. She has not taken me up on this offer, however.
Also, my own mother just asked me why the cat didn’t have an “accident.” Um, hello, Crazy Horse, because I’m sane. And I want my kids not to kill me in my sleep some day when I’m old, that’s why. Also, I like my daughter, and if we all have to live without socks for the next 7 years until the cat kicks it, then I guess that’s what we’ll do, because I brought the thing home in the first place. And she does still purr a lot, and she’s sweet. And it’s kind of cute how she walks around with that middle-aged cat FUPA swinging all around.
Oh, and also, now I’m pretty sure I know what happened to the mutt I adopted right before I left for Ecuador in high school. You know, the one that “disappeared” that year I was gone?