Meow

Since I was five, my family has always had at least one cat. We've had quite a few memorable ones, including Daddy Kitty (who was female), Strawberry (who thought she should be human), Munchkin (who churned out more kittens than I thought possible), and Fluffy (who is now a sweet cat despite the fact that she was an evil, evil thing when we first got her). Up until last week, if you had asked me how I felt about cats, I would have told you that I thought cats were sweet, mostly docile creatures who were nice because they ignored you and left you alone most of the time. Now? Cats are demon spawn. Much like Lucifer, they are charming and cute until they think they can take over the world. Then, all hell breaks loose.

I went to a pet shop in Logan over Veteran’s Day weekend. I had been researching whether or not it would be feasible for me to get a parakeet and decided to see if anyone at the local store could offer some advice. I met a nice employee, we talked about the birds, and I headed towards the door. I would not have even noticed there were kittens had one little paw not stuck out and grabbed my shirt. But one did, and I was drawn in. This little kitten was so friendly, doing its best to try and slip through the bars so it could get closer to me and purring nonstop. I wanted to buy it on the spot, but walked out. Like any mature adult, I consulted three people about whether or not I should buy the cat: my mom, my sister, and my best friend. All three said no. So I spent five days trying to talk myself out of the cat before finally returning to the pet store to buy it.

The first five days were great. Mose is a fluffy, cuddly cat, and he liked to curl up in my lap while I wrote. Each night he slept on the small of my back, purring all the while. He liked to play with the catnip mice I bought him, entertaining himself for the better part of an hour most nights. He was so cute that I was almost willing to accept that I had taken two more steps towards crazy cat lady old spinsterhood by welcoming him into my house. Then, all hell broke loose.

I forgot that kittens don’t retract their claws very well. My legs are covered in little kitten claw marks from every time he has attempted to climb up into the chair by launching himself, claws first, onto my lap only to slip and hang by one claw onto my pants. I have also caught him hanging from clothes in my closet by one claw after he attempted to climb up them.

I forgot that kittens think everything that moves is something to attack. This includes my fingers as they move across the keyboard, my feet as I walk from one end of the apartment to the other, and my toes as I tap them to the beat of the music. One word: ouch.

I forgot that whatever you’re doing is the most interesting thing in the world and must be interrupted immediately. When I read he sits down right in the middle of the book. When I write in my journal he bites the pen and tries to run off with it. As I've been working on my writing projects this month, more than one paragraph has had ======= or ppppppppppppp or 888888888888 typed across the page. The best was they day he hit the backspace key.

I forgot that cats have no regard for your sleeping habits. Each night as I attempt to drift to sleep, he runs up and down the hallway, then jumps around in the boxes that I have yet to unpack before returning to the bedroom to jump in the clothes hamper, onto the dresser, onto the bed, and into the closet before repeating the pattern for the next thirty minutes.

So yes, my cat acts like demon spawn, but I really like my Mose. He's just so fluffy. He’s adorable when he plays with his catnip mouse. He runs to the door each night when I get home from work. He curls up next to me when I’m on the couch and purrs like mad. He looks so cute when he sits just so in the windowsill. Like I said, almost willing to accept that I’m two (maybe three) steps closer to crazy cat lady old spinsterhood. (Pray for me…)