Thursday, November 12, 2009

Great Pets

Some nights I come home and I look forward to a time when we have no cats.
Or at least cats that shed and shit with less wild abandon than the two we have now do.

Don't get me wrong. I love my cats. They are a fair representation of their owners: aloof assholes and insightful comforters in turns. And my home has always had cats, and sometimes a dog. I like pets but MAN these two are...suffering some sort of moving related trauma that is manifesting itself in the worst possible ways. Or they have simply matured into furry assholes, I'm not really sure.

Beatrice has claimed not only the bathroom but also the living room as her territory. This leaves Jabber stuck in our wee tiny bedroom and the corner of the kitchen where his water bowl sits. He doesn't even like that water bowl. When I get up in the mornings he is sitting beside it, glaring at it with complete contempt. If he could open the fridge and pour himself water from the filter into a proper tea cup he would be happier I think. He is a pris and a puss and easily bullied by Beatrice who has always been a bully, even when she was small enough to fit into my pocket.

It would take a really, really big marsupial to fit her in a pocket now, the fatass. We have taken to calling her Meatloaf behind her back because, from behind her back, she resembles one. But with evil eyes, that are mirrors into an evil soul. If it were up to Queen Bea every piece of paper or clothing that was left draped on a chair or on the floor would belong to her and her alone. The sweater I was wearing that I abandoned on the rocking chair? Hers now. The sports section The Husband is trying to read? Hers now. The desk chair no one has sat on in a half hour? All for Bea to sit on and not for you. She doesn't care what you thought you were doing, all your things are belong to Bea. End of story. It's no wonder that Jabber has created a fortress of solitude within our closet.

It's hard to believe that Bea is now 12 and who the hell knows how old Jabber is. He came to us with his (dumb) name and his age a mystery. We used to think he was really young but we're beginning to suspect he is actually an old man. We could probably take him to a vet but he's not sick, we don't have the money and the anxiety of the car trip and the waiting room would probably kill him no matter what his age.

Eventually, these two shall pass and I will be sad, probably for a long time, but I wont miss the smell of the liter box or being woke in the middle of the night because there's a cat trying to climb across my face and onto my pillow. Nope, wont miss that at all.