One of my favourite bloggers was recently vacationing away from home and found herself, to her apparent surprise, to be blatantly missing the company of her kat. She posed the question: “Is it dumb to be this attached to a cat?” The following is a description of how unattached *I* am when it comes to my bossy team of hairball-excreting, furniture-wrecking, bed-hogging, skidmark-leaving, attention-demanding, masturbation-interrupting, non-bug-killing, furry food addicts.

Why, yes, YES it IS that dumb!! MY kats are not in the least bit mollycoddled. I do not pay rent for a TWO-bedroom apartment [which is quite a stepdown from the beautiful townhouses I rented prior to my career derailing 18 months ago] because I need an extra room in which to keep three large covered litterboxes. I have never borrowed hundreds of dollars from an employer in order to “finance” a six-day stay in the animal hospital for one of my kats. I do not regularly spend $50 on crack-vial-sized bottles of kitty insulin. If I had the money, I would most certainly go on vacation and leave my skittish and physically fragile kats to the care of a petsitter and not worry myself sick throughout my absence from home. I often think about moving out of the States and the idea of putting my kats into quarantine for six months is in no way a deterrent to my thoughts of relocation. I never sulk when nobody will climb onto my lap for a snuggle. I do not use the kats’ terror of the vacuum cleaner as an excuse to delay housework. I have never stayed home on a weekend night because the company of my kats (and a decent bottle of wine) has seemed preferable to spending the evening in a smoke-laden bar. I do not clutter my floors with katnip pillows, hair-ties, and paper bags. You will not find me patiently dribbling prescription liquid laxative into the unwilling throat of a chronically constipated kat. Twice daily. Nor will you ever catch me gently wiping the tears from a beautiful blue feline eye that has been irritated by a minor infection. I do not buy rotisserie chickens and split the meat between myself and my babies. It is not true that I once found the most perfect katnip toy in a pet store in Los Angeles and eventually tracked down the manufacturer, who is in Maryland, in order to purchase the toys in bulk for the next 15 years. It would be utterly ridiculous to even suggest that I can be brought to the verge of tears simply by thinking of one of my babies eventually dying. I do not ever give in to the outrageous demands of one certain little piglet who insists that I accompany him to the food bowl and stay to keep him company while he snacks. I have never contorted myself into a pretzel while sliding my legs out of bed in order to not disturb a sleeping kat. I did not grow up in a household in which the exclamation “The kat is on my lap!” was a valid reason to excuse you from any chore . . .

*That’s bastardised French meaning “for kat” [I left out the word “le”], pronounced “por sha” … DK scores yet another cutesie-clever title! I’m brilliant I tell you . . . brilliant!

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This entry was posted on Monday, July 2nd, 2007 at 3:01 pm and is filed under Humour, Kat Tails. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.