My cats are evil


Early last year I wrote about my kittens, and I’ve realized that you all have been hanging on the edge of your seats to hear the update. Update: my cats are evil monsters. They’ve strategically taken over my life.

I wake up in the morning and lie in bed surrounded, like a helpless swimmer in a sea of sharks. I try to wash my face or brush my teeth, but inevitably I must first remove a large, furry body from the sink.

I’m continually watched and followed in my own home. Single and independent? Hardly. Things start to turn pretty ugly when demands are not met. If the bottom of the food dish can be seen, the oldest takes it upon herself to make sure I cannot walk without tripping over her, a sacrificial move for the team, to be sure.

When I buy any decor, I must make sure the items are not easy to scratch, break or topple over. The cats must always have first consideration.

They send me to work every day so they have ample time alone to wreak havoc and concoct more evil plans, and they fatten off my earnings.

Cats are fluffy, which makes them seem cute and innocent, but in reality the fur is a means they actively employ to assert their dominance within the household and upon their owner. Everything revolves around the fur — cleaning frequency and methods, laundry, furniture purchases. Like little blackmailers inserting threats into my everyday life, the cats make sure I take reminders of them when I go out, especially if I’m wearing their favorite color, black (to match their black hearts). They have even sabotaged cookies I made for work.

Potential suitors see the cat hair, hear those occasional red-flag mentions of plural cats, and run for their lives. This is part of the plan. The cats are obsessive and controlling — they must have me all to themselves.

You might think, “Just don’t talk about them — you will seem halfway normal then.” Ah, you have clearly never been in a hostage situation. Stockholm syndrome is real, my friend. The cats become an all-consuming thought, crossing the line from the conscious to the unconscious in a sick game of brainwashing. I blurt out stock phrases they’ve previously inserted while I sleep, like “But they’re so cute!”, half laughing, half crying as I watch people run.

They have even used me to recruit others to cat obsession. What have I done? They fill my Facebook feed with mind-numbing cat videos, compel me to share cat memes and insert themselves into my columns. I fear that even this column, a seeming lashing out against their evil deeds, is just a ploy that will be turned to their favor.

I try to revolt in little ways, shoving them off the book I’m reading or laptop I’m working on, refusing their pleas for human food, maintaining off-limits zones. They allow me these small moments of satisfaction, a temporary delusion of feeling in charge, because they are confident of the real pecking order.

They are so confident that they sprawl out in various exposed poses, or scrunch up like little loaves and let their eyes drift downward, slowly letting their guard down. They begin to purr loudly and hug each other and hug me, their furry little bodies transferring warmth, their little pink noses nestling into my arm, and... Awww, aren’t they cute?


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