*Originally written by Jay Skeen who quit us.
Cats suck, and they’re a girl animal. For being the finer sex, women seem to have picked the rudest god damn animal in the world as a companion. And my justification for this point of view is this; when a dog sits where he’s not supposed to, or breaks something, or misbehaves in some other way, you probably smack that animal. You don’t beat it to a pulp, but you smack it on the butt, or you yell at it. The dog looks sad, and after two or three times the dog knows he’s not supposed to do that, and he won’t do it anymore. Why? Because he wants you to be happy, both in general and with him. When you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, maybe crying over the loss of a loved one, visibly upset, your dog comes and lays his head in your lap. It’s sad because you’re sad. Dogs want you to be happy. Cats don’t give a shit if you’re happy or not. They’re still trying to figure out what the fuck you’re doing in their house.
The second you spray a cat with water to get it off the furniture, or throw it off the bed, or knock it off the counter, know that you’re starting a battle of wills with that cat. You’ll start by spraying her out of your recliner. Then you’ll catch her sitting in it when you walk in the door but she’ll spring out of the seat too quick for you to spray her. So then you’ll put a spray bottle right next to the door hoping to get her on the quick-draw. Then she figures out the times you usually come home, so you start scrambling your schedule to throw her off. Then one day you find yourself running home on your lunch break TO SPRAY A FUCKING CAT WITH A SPRAY BOTTLE HOPING TO CATCH IT UNAWARE stopping dead in your tracks just as you get to your vehicle wondering where it all went wrong and how the hell you made it this far in life.
They’re stubborn animals, which makes it worse; they know what they’re not supposed to be doing. They’re not dumb, they’re just rude. I’ll see them in windowsills or climbing on furniture and as soon as they see me looking they jump down. But they’re gonna do whatever they want and hope they don’t get caught. The two in my house have been knocked off counters, smacked on the butt and sprayed with water to absolutely no effect. It’s a war of wills and you feel like your manhood is on the chopping block because you’re losing to an animal who takes three weeks to learn to shit in a box and spends most of their time sleeping. That’s a toddler, you’re losing to a toddler.
There’s a rule about living with cats; nothing valuable more than three feet above ground level. Because a cat’s mentality is “can I lay on it? If not, why is it even here?” CRASH. Those precious heirlooms your great aunt gave you two weeks before she died are in pieces, and odds are that cat doesn’t care enough to even look at you after it happens. It’s at this point that you’ll seriously consider throwing that bitch into a pillowcase, driving to Wenas, throwing her out of the truck and praying the coyotes find her before she makes her way back home. How do people even own more than one of these things? I consider killing the two that live with me on a daily basis.
There’s a poem by Edgar Allen Poe in which he gouges out a cat’s eye. I used to feel so sorry for that animal that didn’t even exist. Now, I get it.