Reasons Why I Hate My Cat


This is my cat.

His name is Tober, which is short for October. I named him October because if I didn’t give it to my cat I would be tempted to give it to a kid instead.

You’re welcome, future progeny. (Also he’s a black cat. Duh.)

Anyway, don’t be fooled by his sleek and charming exterior. This is not a nice cat.

I mean, sure he is friendly and affectionate and attentive, but he is also a wicked bastard.

For instance, if I am sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast and reading a book this is the cat that will hop up onto my lap and make himself comfortable. He will snuggle right down into the crook of my arm and look adoringly up at me with great big kitten eyes and then fall asleep with his head nestled in my armpit.  You know, never mind that I need to be at my desk by 9 am and still need to shower and do the dishes. No! He has no respect for me being a responsible human being.

Not proof enough? Well, what about when I decide to take a short cat nap in the afternoon and I wake up to discover that he has made himself comfortable on my stomach. I mean, do bills really need to be paid? Does the bathroom really need to be cleaned? Just how important is it that I get around to applying for grad school? Right? And there he is looking so innocent and sleepy and, heck, I’m still a little sleepy myself so maybe I should just enjoy having a cat napping with me…

Ok and how about when I’m diligently working and I have papers all laid out neatly on the floor in stacks and he comes prancing in to see what I am up to and thinks that they are playthings? I mean, sure they rustle and skitter across the floor and look like a lot of fun. And we’d all like to climb inside that cardboard box and pretend that it is a fort, but there is work to… um… work that I need to….

Screw it. I’m busy playing with the cat.


~ by Gwydhar Gebien on January 10, 2013.

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