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Dear Cat Romantics-
Yer dreamin'.
Don't get me wrong. I'm quite fond of our moggies. But the elegance, cleanliness, and fastidiousness of cats? This is hogwash of the first water. Pure propaganda promulgated by deluded cat fanciers.
First there is Tinka, the Pigpen of the cat world, who leaves an impact crater of flung cat food twice the diameter of her bowl whenever she eats; who rolls and wallows in filth like a happy piglet and then drags every bit of it inside the house -- to the point where in summer I regularly have to invert my keyboard to shake the twigs and clots of dirt out of it, because guess who likes to come lie on my hands whenever I try to type; and who so hates grooming and being groomed that I have to cut the winter dreadlocks out of her fur with embroidery snips every spring. Tinka is also the one who managed to get into the top of my storage closet before disgorging a furball so that she could projectile vomit black tar all over the majority of my dress clothes.
Now we have Lefty, who not only drinks off the bathroom faucet, but also out of the toilet if the lid is left up, and regularly pees in the bathtub. And since Lefty and Tinka are still conducting a slow war for territorial dominance of the upstairs, now Tinka has taken to peeing in the bathtub as well, usually right after Lefty has. Yay! Bladder wars!
And who was it that dragged their unwashed cat butt across my pillow so it now smells like last week's litter box? I'm thinking Lefty -- the established mistress of the bedroom.
But despite Lefty's impressive innovations, Tinka is still the queen of the roughhewn bowery cats, as I was reminded again last night. She's bonkers for french fries. A crazed, ravening fiend for them. I can make her sit up and beg -- upright on her haunches like an alarmed prairie dog, with both forepaws grappling my fist -- if I will just dangle a Wendy's fried spud for her. We're fairly sure this bizarre craving is childhood nostalgia: a reminder of her former life on the mean streets of Seattle. Yes, we are the proud owners of a dumpster-diving street cat.
Not that we'd have them any other way. But let's please have no nonsense about the angelic tidiness of cats. It's bunk.
Don't get me wrong. I'm quite fond of our moggies. But the elegance, cleanliness, and fastidiousness of cats? This is hogwash of the first water. Pure propaganda promulgated by deluded cat fanciers.
First there is Tinka, the Pigpen of the cat world, who leaves an impact crater of flung cat food twice the diameter of her bowl whenever she eats; who rolls and wallows in filth like a happy piglet and then drags every bit of it inside the house -- to the point where in summer I regularly have to invert my keyboard to shake the twigs and clots of dirt out of it, because guess who likes to come lie on my hands whenever I try to type; and who so hates grooming and being groomed that I have to cut the winter dreadlocks out of her fur with embroidery snips every spring. Tinka is also the one who managed to get into the top of my storage closet before disgorging a furball so that she could projectile vomit black tar all over the majority of my dress clothes.
Now we have Lefty, who not only drinks off the bathroom faucet, but also out of the toilet if the lid is left up, and regularly pees in the bathtub. And since Lefty and Tinka are still conducting a slow war for territorial dominance of the upstairs, now Tinka has taken to peeing in the bathtub as well, usually right after Lefty has. Yay! Bladder wars!
And who was it that dragged their unwashed cat butt across my pillow so it now smells like last week's litter box? I'm thinking Lefty -- the established mistress of the bedroom.
But despite Lefty's impressive innovations, Tinka is still the queen of the roughhewn bowery cats, as I was reminded again last night. She's bonkers for french fries. A crazed, ravening fiend for them. I can make her sit up and beg -- upright on her haunches like an alarmed prairie dog, with both forepaws grappling my fist -- if I will just dangle a Wendy's fried spud for her. We're fairly sure this bizarre craving is childhood nostalgia: a reminder of her former life on the mean streets of Seattle. Yes, we are the proud owners of a dumpster-diving street cat.
Not that we'd have them any other way. But let's please have no nonsense about the angelic tidiness of cats. It's bunk.