This Cat Hates You
It’s nothing personal.
Hate is a strong word. I suppose if I thought about you at all it would be, “where is the person whose job it is to keep me in food and water and to clean out my shit when I have shat?” In fact, I sort of resent relying on you in any capacity.
Who am I kidding? I love that you feel some odd compulsion to keep me fed. And then there’s the bit where I stare at you while you’re eating and stare and stare, you know, just sitting there, looking at you. I wonder if it makes you as uncomfortable as when I do that while you’re masturbating?
It’s a thin line between love and hate, and I should know because I’m constantly traversing it. First it’s, “Ooh, your lap is so warm and cozy and I just want to sit here like the Sphinx forever, purring and kneading your thighs,” and the next it’s, “why did you move when I am so comfortable? What if I decided to bring out my claws and scratch your face just, you know, for shits and giggles? How would that be? Would you like it if I disturbed your sleep by, like, moving?”
I don’t ask for much, you know. In fact, I don’t ask for anything. You’re the one bringing the freshly laundered clothing out all warm and inviting. Did I tell you to put it on the couch? Did I say, “Hey, you know what would work out peachy-keen for me would be if you took all the warm clothes and piled them up right there and then I would never, ever, in a million years want to jump into the middle of them,” because, what, am I stupid or something?
They’re warm clothes, shithead.
Look, I’m not trying to be cute. If you think I’m cute, fine, whatever, but this is me trying to just, you know, relax after a long day of napping.
And don’t think I don’t hear you when you talk about me being all lazy as fuck and spending the day doing nothing but sleeping, snacking, and drinking. Jealousy is an ugly emotion, and on you it looks especially needy. It’s not my fault that your job is to get up and stick your body in that tall, weird, water-filled room (yes, I watch you when you’re in there. I assume it is some form of punishment) and then you cover your body in another body that never looks quite the same (if you could be naked all day, why aren’t you?) and leave.
So, yes, I spend my day sleeping and snacking and drinking. I’m not exactly sure what my alternative is, anyway. Like I’m supposed to do your dishes? What is this, the 1800s and I’m your slave or something?
But I do want to take this opportunity to tell you a few things that would make my life better.
- Always keep the food dish filled. Can’t stress this enough. Sometimes I go over there and there’s nothing in it. What the fuck?
- I’m going to drink out of any water container I find, particularly the ones you leave on the table next to you when I’m on your lap. Those are mine, now. They are all mine.
- I vomit. A lot. Think of it like a gift I’m giving you. A warm, wet, stain of a gift I leave somewhere that’s easy for you to find with your bare feet. Because I’m thoughtful like that.
- Thanks, by the way, for that box of sand you leave for me to shit into. So convenient. But it would be super sweet if you could fucking get my old shit out of it to make room for my new shit! Jesus Christ, how hard is it to get shit out of a box? Isn’t that how you make dinner?
You’re really weird.
I just wanted to say that here because you keep asking why I’m staring at you, and it’s because you’re really weird. Like, I don’t even get you. At all.
