Why we don’t need another cat
by Fred
My wife is, in fact, right about the fact that we’ve crossed over the line of weirdness by having more than two cats. What she fails to see is the second line of demarcation, the “people who have more than four cats and whose house always smells of feline feces” line. That’s a line I don’t wish to cross.
First, we’re far too young to have five cats; hasn’t she noticed that only old single women and lesbians have more than four cats? My wife is obviously not a lesbian, unless she’s been hiding something from me. If she is a lesbian, how come I’ve never been allowed to watch? But I digress. As far as single old women go, I plan neither to divorce nor die in the foreseeable future.
Second, studies (I’ve seen them on TV) show that more than five cats exhibit a pack mentality. In fact, just the other night I saw a documentary on TV which showed (possibly in an “America’s Most Wanted”-style re-enactment) a group of angry cats attack a defenseless old woman (see previous paragraph) just for running out of milk and trying to substitute some non-dairy creamer mixed with water! Need I really say more about this point?
Finally, Robyn fails to forget the persnickety nature of our existing furballs. Spot, for one, would have diarrhea for at LEAST two weeks, and probably three. Spanky wouldn’t be terribly affected, except that he’d continually be surprised, since he’d most likely forget there was a new cat from day to day. Stimpy would show his displeasure by befouling any spare piece of carpet with his feces (then trying to cover it, and producing some designs reminiscent of the more complex crop circles from a few years ago). Last but not least, there’s Snoopy, who would proceed to defecate and urinate on my bed with reckless abandon, as he does whenever there’s a serious change of lifestyle. Tell me I’m right.
Fred
Okay, first of all if anyone reading this is going to take offense at the “lesbians or old single women” line, you need to email Fred about it, not me. Besides, I’m fairly sure he’s kidding. Secondly, I still want a kitten, damnit! I. Want. A. Kitten. Damnit. The boys would just have to deal with it. Anyone have any orange tabby kittens to give away?
(PS: If you didn’t get the joke in the second paragraph of Fred’s essay let me know, and I’ll clue you in.)
I’ve been emailing back and forth with Audrey (who was kind enough to let me have her URL), and I’ve really been enjoying it! We seem to share the same opinions on certain things, and I really like reading her journal. Go read it. Go on, now. I’ll wait here. Wasn’t it great? I just love the tone of her entries; it seems like she writes the way she talks, (though I haven’t talked to her; it’s just a guess) and I look for that in a journal. Bookmark it, now, so you don’t get all frantic when you’re wanting to read some more of it.
So today pretty much sucked. I had to get up at 5:45, because the crockpot beef stew recipe I wanted to make for dinner tonight had to cook for 10 to 12 hours. I threw everything in the crockpot and went back to bed, hoping to catch an hour of sleep from the jaws of Hell. This quest was made impossible by order of King Spanky, who insisted upon climbing on top of me and pressing his ice-cold, Tidy Cat-scented paw to my cheek. Repeatedly. That cat has the coldest damn paws I’ve ever had the privilege of feeling on my face.
I gave up and rolled out of bed around 8 and took my shower, did some more laundry, ate a quick breakfast of strawberry Pop-Tarts Snack Sticks, and ran out the door with the spud, because she had a soccer game this morning (tournament games are this weekend and next). The game ended with a tied score, which meant there had to be a shoot-out (5 girls from each team line up and take turns trying to kick the ball into the goal; whoever ends the shoot-out with the highest number of goals wins the game. Or something. I wasn’t paying close attention, so I’m pretty much guessing.). The first shootout ended in a tie, which led to the second shootout, which also ended in a tie, and led to the third shootout. The other team won. When the spud got in the truck, I found out (to my horror, might I add), that she had another game at 2:00. Today. Oh, was I peeved. Did I know that I would be spending practically my entire day at the soccer field? Why no, thank you very much, I did not.
And it’s all Fred’s fault. How?, you want to know. How can it possibly be the fault of that sweet man who made some very good points in his essay above? Well, I’ll tell you. Listen closely, my friends, and I will tell you. Last night, as I wandered weary into the house, tired from my long day of web-surfing, movie-watching, and grocery-getting, he waylaid me. Would you rather take her to her game tomorrow, or clean the house? he asked. And it was a difficult question for me to answer. It was his turn to take her to her game, but he was offering to clean the house, top to bottom, if I’d take her to her game. I hate sitting in the truck waiting for the spud’s interminable soccer games to end (don’t give me that disapproving look, reader. I can see the whole game from my truck, which I park right next to the soccer field, so shut the Hell up). But more than that, oh yes, eons more than that, I loathe cleaning the house. I hate it with a passion. So he suckered me in. I asked for the terms of the agreement (“You’ll clean the whole house? I don’t have to do anything? You promise?”) and then signed in blood.
He was done with his cleaning by 9 am, and I spent hours and hours sitting in my truck, watching incredibly long, incredibly dull (yes, I love the spud with all my heart, but watching never-ending soccer games just makes me want to gouge my eyes out. the cuteness of seeing those little 10- and 11-year olds running around has long worn off) soccer games. He’s the devil, I tell you!
To his credit, he did start cleaning at 5:45. But still.
So after the second soccer game (they lost), I came home, lounged around for half an hour or so, and finished making dinner (which I thought was good but got 2 thumbs down from Princess Fred). An hour or so after dinner, Fred’s dad and stepmom came over to watch “The Blair Witch Project” with us. I saw it in the theater, and yesterday when he got home with the new dvd, Fred watched the ending, but neither Jim nor Jean had seen any of it. They weren’t impressed. I still like it. I think Fred liked it.
After they left, I changed back into my crappy, faded old t-shirt and took my bra off.
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