I have a cat named Maggie. She is a 14-year-old Burmese who is sitting on my lap & farting repeatedly as I write this. It is 7 o’clock in the morning and I am UP despite a crushing desire to sleep in. I am awake because at 6:13am Maggie started to meow over and over again. She does this every Saturday and Sunday morning for reasons that are beyond me. I get up at 4am every weekday so when she does this, it’s like someone is punching me in the stomach.
I have owned a string of surly felines throughout my life and as much as I adore them, each has had some bizarre quirk that made me consider catricide (is that a thing?).
There was Brer who was the sweetest grey tabby ever until I fed him wet-food one morning. I felt guilty for leaving him alone while I worked so I dumped a treat into his bowl before walking out. Brer thanked me for this by waking me up earlier and earlier each day for his TREAT. He also reached a whopping 18 pounds in the process. Brer got so fat that he could no longer reach his butt to lick it. You don’t realize how BADLY a cat needs to do that until he STOPS.
We also have a small Burmese named James Brown who likes to punch me in the face at night. I don’t know exactly how he manages it, but he can ball his tiny paw into a fist & whack me so I’m still able to feel one needlelike claw.
The biggest bastard of the bunch though had to be my husbands cat Wilson. This cat was NOT happy when I turned up but he only showed his displeasure when my husband wasn’t around. The first time Wilson attacked me was when Dave was out of town. If you have ever REALLY been attacked by a cat, you’ll know how terrifying this was for me. Wilson, who up until this moment had nothing but purrs for me, latched onto my wrist like he was a starving lion. I flapped my arms around like a desperate bird but he would NOT let go. When he finally took a break from his assault, Wilson sat in front of me and calmly licked his paws like nothing had happened. I ran out in tears & went to work, where someone asked if I’d smashed my arm through a window. THAT’S how bad it looked! My husband always rolls his eyes when I tell that part of the story. Wilson continued this attacks like a tiny Cato (Google “Pink Panther” if you don’t get that one) until his death years later.
Despite my cat history, I will continue to buy the silken little monsters for the rest of my days. When I die, I fully expect to have multiple cats sitting on my bed waiting for me to expire, just so they can eat me.
In fact, Maggie just jumped from my lap and what did she leave behind? It’s a perfectly round little nugget of poo. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that Maggie had been reading this all along and left me a treat to say “Thank You.”