Ok firsts of all I am sorry. I wanna apologize to my 3 readers that this is about to be published for you to see, but in fact it was hilarious… to me.
My life revolves around my cat. Unfortunately I wasn’t aware that you become your cat’s pet when you decide to get one. That wasn’t in the brochure. But as life goes on, your hierarchy within the home goes from you being the HNIC to you becoming the litter the cat rests his healthy dump on. It’s an exciting adjustment of power. First you show the cat around, like H-I (nicholas cage) in "Raising Arizona" ("THIS HERE'S THE TEEVEE!")... let him soak in the litter box location and where the food and water is. After he is well adjusted, your crown becomes a little less comfortable. You become “Odie-like” in the life of Garfield, and therefore you become the village idiot-slave.
Once the cat is the new HNIC, white smoke appears to come from your nonexistent apartment chimney. The pope cheers in the new kitty, even younger priests are hopeful you are heterosexual so you produce more kids for them to molest, which makes ya wonder… is it chastity that makes the church hate gays, or just an intervention of the production of children being cattle-chuted into the churchs’ rectories that pisses them off…? I digress…
In general you don’t need an alarm anymore. The wake-up call is instinctively 3 minutes before your alarm would go off anyway. Cries of “get me food” “stroke my belly” “play with me” “clean my can” or “get me water” all sound like “meow” but they have their own inflections of “RIGHT MEOWING NOW!”
The morning slave pleases his master with a pat on the head, fresh bowl of water, clean litterbox, and a shake of the food tray to bring down more food (it’s an autofeeder). At THAT point its ok to then get your own day ready, as the loud warning MEOWs subside.
The routine doesn’t end there though.
You still must please every asset in the master’s life when you are around… the constant barrage of demands continue to rein down on you until whatever task it is is finally completed.
On the days that life is manageable, although few and far between, we race around like headless chickens in the apartment. I tripping him up, and he doing his best to foul my footwork. And those of you who know anything about my high sports achievements can attest, I have no footwork whatsoever.
Think bambi on ice. That’s me.
But yesterday something must have been stuck in the zipper lining of his fur coat, cause running away from him to confirm I shot a pill in half from 35 feet away with my pellet pistol, he decided to go pearl harbor on me and sock me with a head down, 4 paw torpedo to the shins.
I hoped he didn’t use his head, otherwise we’d have to redo the play but 15 yards back, and I am not that great of a shot, because he came at me helmet first… and as Al Michaels can tell you, that was no miracle, but a penalty...
My ass hit the ground with such force that the normal pain that shoots up your back wasn’t felt. It had been years that I have own—, err, that the cat has owned me, and this was the first time i got whacked. I just doubled over in painful laughter. He sauntered over to me making sure I wasn’t paralyzed to steal my socks (RIP Patrice O’Neal) with a “that’s right BITCH” look on his face.
He gave me a headbutt, then cried loudly “I want water…NOW!”
