Monday 4 July 2011

It’s a cat drowning day

Whilst I’m blogging, let’s get the subject of my cat out of the way nice and early
I live on my own and after some well meaning (and misplaced) advice I got a cat so that I would have a “responsibility in life”

Her name is Rosie, and as the name suggests she's about 181 years old, I decided that if I was going to get a cat I’d get a rescue cat, and that rescue cat would be the oldest, meanest, most unloved cat they had - the kind of cat the families shrink away from, the kind of cat that even the people at the rescue centre want to stuff in a bag with a brick and throw in a canal

Now, if you’re looking for an amazing transformation, a bond between an unloved cat and lonely guy keep looking... since I’ve had her I’ve lost count of the amount of bites and scratches she's given me, how many times I’ve been woken up at 4am by (truly) unholy meowing and the sheer quantity of fur balls she's puked up.

It doesn’t stop there, despite buying the biggest shit box I could find, she fails to hit the target most of the time, and she won't stop smacking her stupid feral tail so hard that she actually managed to knock my laptop of the table


But here's the deal, she gives me moments of pleasure – every time she does something disgusting I take a photo and email it to my friend (she hates cats), she purrs loudly in the rare times she's happy, and I feel like I’m taking care of something other than myself (and she keeps falling of furniture which is physical comedy on a par with the late great Buster Keaton)

So, do I really want her dead? Truth is that will happen soon enough, so I can put up with all the other shit in the meantime

-   bod

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