Rose Richard
Being an activist all day makes me really tired, so I’m going to write about something else very near and dear to my heart. Since I’ve stopped watching CNN or any other news in the morning, I’ve been watching Animal Planet. Animal Planet is reason enough to get cable.
They have all sorts of shows about dogs. You see, I love dogs. I’m going to be one of those insane old ladies with a house full of dogs because I hate, hate, hate cats.
Cats are from the devil. I had a cat named Angle once. I came to own Angle through sort of a custody arrangement when a boyfriend and I broke up. The little kid who had given the cat to Ex-boyfriend wanted him to name her Angel, but he didn’t spell it right on the note. So Angle it was.
Angle was, um, developmentally disabled. She sneezed all the time. When she sneezed, these great, long ropes of green snot would come out. By the time I moved out of that particular apartment, my wainscoting was covered with hardened kitty snot. It was impossible to keep up with her sneezes.
Another troubling habit of Angle’s was to sleep in my bathroom sink. I would come home from work, and there she’d be, purring away as the leaky faucet dripped on her. When I took baths, she would sit on the edge of the tub and “talk” to me. Angle may have been a touch mental, but she was the only nice kitty I’ve ever known. Anyway, when she got tired of talking to me, she would test the water with her paw. Just little kitty touches. Inevitably, she would stick her paw in further and further until she fell in the tub. Angle had to be given away. I just couldn’t cope with her.
My next bad kitty encounter was with my insane friend (the one who is making me be her maid of honor). She got this weird little kitten that she decided to name Nixon. This cat is just as bad as her namesake. She is a demon beast.
Once, against my better judgment, I told her I’d cat-sit Nixon for a night. Nixon was still a baby kitty, so I thought it would be a pretty easy task. Oh no. Per my friend’s instructions, when Nixon got rambunctious, I locked her in the bathroom. There was silence for like, five seconds. Then total mayhem ensued. I think Nixon knocked over what she hadn’t already destroyed. So I let her out.
At bedtime, I put my hair up in a topknot and tried to go to sleep. Nixon must have thought my hair was some sort of threatening animal because she spent the entire night putting her sharp hellbeast claws into my scalp. I’m glad I didn’t get a staphylococcal infection from her diseased paws. I didn’t get a wink of sleep either. If any cat needed to be kicked, it is that one.
The last kitty horror story I have to tell is about Lily, who betrayed me. You see, I used to love Lily. She would sit in my lap and purr. When I came to visit, she would come running and do figure eights around my ankles. She’s a pretty kitty too, even though she’s a little “big boned.” It’s all love anyway. Or so I thought.
One day, I was petting Lily and she bit the hell out of my hand. She bit me so hard, my hand was bruised for days. I felt hurt and betrayed and Lily has dashed my hopes that there are good cats in the world. Lily tries to be my friend now, but my feelings are still hurt.
At any rate, I hate cats. If I need some pet love, I go visit my baby dog, Clyde. Clyde is the raddest dog ever. He’s a two-year old collie. He has big hair like me, and he sings when I come to visit. Clyde doesn’t bite, he doesn’t get snot on the wainscoting, and he never sticks his claws in my scalp. Sure he barks at four in the morning, but he’s only protecting us from the squirrels that threaten to invade our property at every moment.
So, if you want a good pet that won’t abuse you after you give and give, feeding it and keeping it safe from worms and mites, get a dog. They have better personalities anyway.
