bangalee57
02-14-2004, 12:11 PM
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reply to: anon-22822390@craigslist.org
Date: Tue Jan 20 21:24:00 2004
I had no intention of getting a cat.
I had every intention of buying a Christmas tree.
This is how it started:
I am home, alone, putting up ornaments in a vain attempt to feel like there is something special about December besides less bums on the street and less BO on the metro.
My first tree. Smells great. Looks pretty good. I tied it to the car myself.
But, it seems to be vibrating. Just slightly.
I reach the center of the tree and feel fur. Now I am not a complete wimp but this is unexpected and scares the shit out of me. So I scream.
And my new cat says "meow".
I named him Scrooge. I think it's a him. I bought him food and a scratching post and litter and the box that comes with it and small fake mice he ignores and I am thinking maybe it will be nice to have a pet that lives longer than my plants.
But he is fucking insane.
He attacks me at every opportunity. People think I am suicidal due to the scratches on my forearms. I own no socks without holes. I can't sleep at night because I know that little fucker is waiting. He sits in the dark, quite and docile. Just when my breathing gets shallow and even and I begin to drift off to peaceful slumber, he attacks.
My feet seem to be his nemesis. And he is relentless.
He likes to wait under the couch when I get home. He waits until I have taken off my shoes and streach my weary toes before jumping out and diggin claws sharper than Gods wit into my flesh.
Then he runs.
And he is fast.
If I am not paying enough attention he will jump to my waist and scale my body like I was Everest until he reaches my shoulder at which point he screams: "Meaow!"
I love him. And I think I am going to kill him.
He has unseen enemies that plauge his existance.
I know because he will run around my apartment in a frenzy careening off of every possible surface. His little eyes wide. His little sphere-shaped head aware of movements in the furnature I cannot perceive. I imagine it is how I would act were you to shove a red-hot coal in my ass and blame it on everything in sight.
When he is actually still long enough for me to pet him, it is only a matter of minutes before his little ears go flat and he grabs my arm. He bites and uses his rear legs to scratch my skin as if it were a lotto ticket.
He is terrified of my basketball. I have no idea what great injustice a simarly looking basketball has done him in his past, but Christ, he hates that thing.
And plugs. He is not afraid of the vaccume (I have no idea how you spell that) but he hates the plug that goes to the wall. I can not afford the electrical tape to satisfy his prejudice.
Sometimes he just stares at me. And I wonder how he is planning my demise.
If I lay on the floor and look at him, he will run full speed and colide with my head. Then he will look at me like I am an asshole and run away. Back to the safety of under my bed where he will wait until I am naked and unprotected to seek his revenge.
If I try to read the paper when I am home he will attack the page. I have no idea what is going on in the world.
I take a shit and he sticks his little arms under the door. He knows I shit when I get home. Its usually quiet in there and this gives me a small heart attack every time. He will run into the bathroom as soon as he hears my key in the door. I have to tease him with a treat and run to close the door before he can get in there with me. This is what I am reduced to.
He is in love with my left work shoe and will defend it with passion every morning. Only the left one. I have no idea why. No other shoe precipitates such adoration from him.
I do not understand this creature.
But I like it when he purrs. I don't know where that sound comes from, but it's great.
He is now in a vicious, losing battle with the string that pulls my window blinds. And there go my blinds. Now, I am sure, he has retreated to under my bed. Only to wait to inflict further dmage to my ravished ankles.
My cat is Paranoid Scitzophrenic. He is Bipolar. Manic Depressive.
Maybe he is a she. Somehow that would make so much more sense.
I love that little fucker, but I think I am going to have to kill him.
Or her.
Reply to: anon-22822390@craigslist.org
Date: Tue Jan 20 21:24:00 2004
I had no intention of getting a cat.
I had every intention of buying a Christmas tree.
This is how it started:
I am home, alone, putting up ornaments in a vain attempt to feel like there is something special about December besides less bums on the street and less BO on the metro.
My first tree. Smells great. Looks pretty good. I tied it to the car myself.
But, it seems to be vibrating. Just slightly.
I reach the center of the tree and feel fur. Now I am not a complete wimp but this is unexpected and scares the shit out of me. So I scream.
And my new cat says "meow".
I named him Scrooge. I think it's a him. I bought him food and a scratching post and litter and the box that comes with it and small fake mice he ignores and I am thinking maybe it will be nice to have a pet that lives longer than my plants.
But he is fucking insane.
He attacks me at every opportunity. People think I am suicidal due to the scratches on my forearms. I own no socks without holes. I can't sleep at night because I know that little fucker is waiting. He sits in the dark, quite and docile. Just when my breathing gets shallow and even and I begin to drift off to peaceful slumber, he attacks.
My feet seem to be his nemesis. And he is relentless.
He likes to wait under the couch when I get home. He waits until I have taken off my shoes and streach my weary toes before jumping out and diggin claws sharper than Gods wit into my flesh.
Then he runs.
And he is fast.
If I am not paying enough attention he will jump to my waist and scale my body like I was Everest until he reaches my shoulder at which point he screams: "Meaow!"
I love him. And I think I am going to kill him.
He has unseen enemies that plauge his existance.
I know because he will run around my apartment in a frenzy careening off of every possible surface. His little eyes wide. His little sphere-shaped head aware of movements in the furnature I cannot perceive. I imagine it is how I would act were you to shove a red-hot coal in my ass and blame it on everything in sight.
When he is actually still long enough for me to pet him, it is only a matter of minutes before his little ears go flat and he grabs my arm. He bites and uses his rear legs to scratch my skin as if it were a lotto ticket.
He is terrified of my basketball. I have no idea what great injustice a simarly looking basketball has done him in his past, but Christ, he hates that thing.
And plugs. He is not afraid of the vaccume (I have no idea how you spell that) but he hates the plug that goes to the wall. I can not afford the electrical tape to satisfy his prejudice.
Sometimes he just stares at me. And I wonder how he is planning my demise.
If I lay on the floor and look at him, he will run full speed and colide with my head. Then he will look at me like I am an asshole and run away. Back to the safety of under my bed where he will wait until I am naked and unprotected to seek his revenge.
If I try to read the paper when I am home he will attack the page. I have no idea what is going on in the world.
I take a shit and he sticks his little arms under the door. He knows I shit when I get home. Its usually quiet in there and this gives me a small heart attack every time. He will run into the bathroom as soon as he hears my key in the door. I have to tease him with a treat and run to close the door before he can get in there with me. This is what I am reduced to.
He is in love with my left work shoe and will defend it with passion every morning. Only the left one. I have no idea why. No other shoe precipitates such adoration from him.
I do not understand this creature.
But I like it when he purrs. I don't know where that sound comes from, but it's great.
He is now in a vicious, losing battle with the string that pulls my window blinds. And there go my blinds. Now, I am sure, he has retreated to under my bed. Only to wait to inflict further dmage to my ravished ankles.
My cat is Paranoid Scitzophrenic. He is Bipolar. Manic Depressive.
Maybe he is a she. Somehow that would make so much more sense.
I love that little fucker, but I think I am going to have to kill him.
Or her.