So this blog is about how I let my cats walk all over me. Both literally and figuratively, and I’m going to explain how so ~watch out~!

THESE CATS.

They do. They walk all over me. They do it good. They are so crafty, these feisty felines of mine.

Yet, if you think about it, ALL pets do that. Dogs, cats, birds: anything that’s cute and small. They just walk the hell over us and we stand there, taking it like cowering pledges in a fraternity. Because what, may I ask, are we going to do about it? Are we going to stand up, a human army and say, “We’re not going to stand for this anymore!” and walk around with painted picket signs saying defiant things? Have a sit-in? We do nothing because they have furry faces that stare back at us. Furry, little, baby, approval-seeking faces. Those damn whiskers.

Here is what is prompting me writhing my animal-loving fists in the air, stomping my feet on the ground and saying “stupid human! You fell for it again!”

Seymour, my debonair tuxedo cat, peed all over the clothes that were (we’ll say, clumsily) placed upon my VINTAGE chair. I know, I KNOW. BUT SRSLY (…I like that chair. SUE ME) Hashtag firstworldprobz.

Anyway he did it. And I marched around for a little while, saying things like, “that damn cat!” and “Grrrrrr” (attempting to imitate, I don’t know, a dog?), grabbing my urine-soaked clothes and shaking them at him. Though i’ve suffered through this attack, this affront on my Humandom numerous times, I’m always confused.

“YOU…YOU. YOUUUUUU are in big big trouble mister.”

“[…]” – because he can’t respond.

“YOU, I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU DID THIS AGAIN.” Again!

“[…]”

“Do you know what kind of big, big trouble you’re going to be in, Mister Man?”

“[…]” Staring up at me, big gold eyes puckering out. At this point, he might have even crossed a paw, that little bastard.

“ME EITHER.”

Because that’s exactly it. I have no idea what “big big trouble” is. I mean, would that entail exactly? That I’d put him in a kitty time-out, take away his t.v. privileges for a day, make him sleep on the floor? No, I can’t very well do those things. So I just fume furiously around the room and curse his little furry baby ways. It’s evil sorcery.

And he does shit like this all the time. Pushes me, shoves me, sees how far he can take me into his furry kingdom of domination where he sits with a sceptre.

Exhibit numero two: I’ll be working, right, concentrating on somethin’ real hard, eyebrows are furrowed at the computer screen, it’s something real tough and taxing on the brain. And he’ll just walk right up onto my desk and right the fuck over my keyboard. Boop, boop, boop, little paws on my now distracted fingers. Consonants spilled everywhere. And I’ll take him, place him down and the floor and say “No, no Seymour,” only to have him bounce back up onto my desk again. It’s a constant assembly line of putting the cat down onto the floor. ^ v ^ v up down, up down. Over and over and OVER again.

He also does these things:

Drinks my iced coffee when I’m out of the room.

Breaks expensive teacups and bowls.

Stands in front of my face, like, right in front of my face, and meows at me.

Continually knocks over his hefty cat tower. It sounds like a shot through the heart.

Licks his butt in front of me and smiles.

Wakes me up at 4:30 a.m. so that he can race around the room like Jeff Fucking Gordon.

Oh! I said I had cats (plural), so my other cat, you ask? To which I dejectedly mumble the equivalent of the phrase, “Same shit, different day.” I love them though, PROMISE.

Because so what, right? What am I going to do?

Well, here, here is what I’m going to do. Here is what YOU ALL are going to do. You’re going to look that little animal in the eye, unsuccessfully spot any weakness and cave like the pussycat you are.

Stupid human.