Catty Behavior

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve simply accepted that the universe is out to get me. I get it. I’m going about my business and looking forward to the day when I don’t have to deal with the extraneous bullshit I’ve been handed lately. Isn’t acceptance supposed to bring peace or enlightenment or something? You know what my (grudging) acceptance has brought? Pets that are determined to make me swallow an entire package of heart worm preventative in an effort to escape them.

The cat, bless her, that deceptively adorable face belies a vindictive nature I would appreciate, were it not directed at me. I brushed her, and she vomited on the windowsill. I applied flea medication on the back of her neck, and she vomited from the top of the refrigerator in such a way that it streaked down the front and formed a puddle on the floor. I trimmed her claws, which isn’t the ordeal one would expect. She sat, completely docile, while I trimmed her nails with the nail clippers from my manicure set. I praised her, telling her that she was the best cat in the world, even if she had taken to vomiting on every surface in my apartment. The little bitch even purred.

Now I know why. She purred in satisfaction while she calculated her revenge, knowing that nothing she did would bring my wrath upon her, and knowing that she was completely above reproach in a household where she reigns supreme, where even the humans are her loyal subjects. I left the room for less than five minutes, but when I returned, she’d vomited in my bed. I stood there staring at the dark red sheets, a fairly large spot now darker from a juicy hairball, and wondered if it would be possible for me to fashion a noose for myself out of a purse-strap.