Isn’t she beautiful? Well, she sucks. My cat’s a crappy pet.
Mornings start at 5 a.m. Faye rises hungry and tippy-toes to my pillow. Without an ounce of compassion for my hangover, she stubbornly licks my face until I get up. It’s evil. She’s not saying “Good morning, love!” Faye licks my face to warm her appetite with the taste of my marinated flesh.
One rare morning, I woke up joyous. My ugly dog didn’t fart all night, so my rest wasn’t rudely interrupted by a poop de jour smelling salt. Faye grumped at my refreshment. She thirsted to taste the meat of my dispirited face, but my cheekiness robbed her. I reached in to greet her. “Morning, gorgeous!” She winced and pushed my hand away.
“Who’s my pretty kitty?”
“Don’t effin touch me. I hate you happy.”
Faye gets served about one cup of kibble per day. Friends have snickered that my pussy got fat. She’s too lazy to exercise on her own, and I don’t know how to break her confidence down to eat self-consciously. My life would be convenient if she had the fragile self-esteem of a proper lady, but Faye is too dismissive about other people’s opinions. Since she refuses to live off cigarettes and coffee, I had to transition her into an appropriate weight management diet.
After breakfast, Faye likes to snooze away her food coma INSIDE my bed. It’s the classic jackass sibling move. The smug look of satisfaction on her face is so annoying. And I know my irritation only pleases her more.
“Dude, move. That’s my spot.”
“Correction. It was your spot.”
“I was getting you food.”
“Sucks to be you, loser.”
Why am I always attracted to the wrong types of companions? Faye’s beautiful and independent, but she has no love in her heart. She’s an ice-cold killer. All she wants is to snoop, sneak, mark, and murder.
As I write, she glares at me from down the hall. The shadows accentuate the thoughts of murder in her glowing eyes. Step off the desk, bitch. Shove me off the keyboard?! I kill you.
I survive upon my cat’s ineptitude. A single laser pointer does well to distract her from slashing the arteries in my ankles. There’s probably no harm, nor foul, as she futilely darts about trying to murder one red dot, but I can’t be certain. At times, I wonder if she’d be able to restrain from lunging at the foreheads of festive Hindu Indians. Her impulsivity to the dot leaves me doubtful.
The only other thing more attractive than a red dot is an open bag. Whether it’s paper or plastic, backpack or purse, if it’s been on the ground for minutes, odds are Faye is in it.
The first time Faye ducked into a bag, I thought she was adorable. Hilarious. I should record this and upload to YouTube. Then I noticed the malice in her gaze.
She hides in bags and bides her time, waiting for any unsuspecting fool to cross her kill zone. In the game of cats, you either pounce or you get holes in your socks.
I have come to terms. Faye is not my pet. She is my scumbag roommate. I pay her bills, feed her, and clean up after her. She couldn’t care less. Whenever I ask her to hang out, she’s always like:
“Naw. I’ve gotta lick my hair.”
“Naw. I’m doing my nails.”
“Naw. I already made plans to stare out the window and reflect upon the trivialities of existentialism relative to the diverse complexities of an impossibly unknowable infinite, and expanding, universe.”
“Naw…shit! The red dot!”
And so, the adage forever remains true. Man’s best friend is one ugly dog.
