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For Sale: Cat. Female, 2YO, spayed, all shots up to date. Very fluffy. Not smart. Likes bathtubs. Must see. A trillion dollars, OBO.

May 19, 2011

I have two cats.  This is the maximum number an unmarried woman over 30 can have without serious risk of crossing the thin furry line between “cat fancier” and “cat lady.”

One is a semi-normal cat.  She eats.  She sleeps.  She meows when she’s unhappy and purrs when content. She sleeps a lot. She sheds like a champion. Other than her uncommon adaptability in times of momentous change (i.e. when we move something she’s trying to sleep on, she takes an extremely wait-and-see attitude in terms of whether the disturbance will merit action on her part), she’s a pretty standard cat.

Evaluating whether or not to bother caring.

Exhibit 1: Normal cat.

The other is like no beast I’ve ever known.  I would try to liken her to a mythical creature of some sort, except that she clearly possesses no magic powers.  She is pretty much tripping the light flufftastic 24X7.  You’ve never seen a cat so friendly, nor one so utterly devoid of grace. Boyfriend has appointed her Official House Clown, and it’s a role she serves well, she of crossed eyes and fluffy toes and her tiny perpetual-kitten “mew.”

What do you mean I'm not supposed to pull outerwear down from the coatrack and nest in it?

Exhibit 2: Crazypants

I’m not going to tell you about the countless hours she spends staring into the slightly reflective door of my oven. Or about the time I caught her choking on her own neck fur (still attached to her neck at the other end), because she couldn’t figure out to just turn her head to the other side.  I won’t even bother you with her propensity to lick the bathtub (clean or not, no evident preference), which I suppose might signal some sort of mineral deficiency, or could just be a sign of affection for her favorite bathroom fixture – “I love you, Mr. Tub! You are my friend! I lick all my friends! ”

But I am going to tell you about yesterday morning. That fateful morning…

I was sitting yestermorning, as I do most mornings, with a cup of hot coffee on the table between me and my email, Fluffbutt on my lap purring away. Suddenly, a flight of fancy struck her unbalanced, cashew-sized brain, which in due time propelled her body onto my laptop. [Strike 1: we do not get on tables. This rule is for humans and cats alike, and I am quite firm in its enforcement.] In the process, she obviously spilled my hot-hot coffee.  On the both of us.

Immediately, the following sequence of events unfolded:

  1. Cat freaks out from wetness, jumps back onto lap.
  2. I freak out from spilled coffee, scream.
  3. Cat escalates terror level from Orange to Hot Molten Lava upon hearing scream, claws lap trying to accelerate her departure from the shitshow developing around her.
  4. I realize there’s a freaked out, coffee-soaked cat running through my house and begin freaking out and running through the house myself, also coffee-soaked.
  5. Cat hides under the dining room table, where it’s almost impossible to navigate the forest of chair legs to grab her.
  6. Cat goes into Feral Kitten mode, sprints to bedroom, hides under bed.
  7. I close bedroom door, enlist sleepy Boyfriend to help in my crusade eventually catch her and wipe her down.
  8. I clean myself up, doctor scratches, soak coffee-stained PJs, get ready for work.
  9. Cat hides for untold hours.
  10. Boyfriend goes back to sleep, forgetting the whole thing even happened.

It’s enough to make me wonder: do we adopt a bunch of cats because we’re crazy?  Or is it the cats that make us crazy?

I love you as much as Mr. Tub! You're my best friend.

This is why I keep them

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