Monday, September 24, 2012


Recently, someone I thought was a friend accused me of cat-lady-ness. Once I recovered from the shock (which entailed going out and heckling some poor goober who was PLAYING THE FUCKING KAZOO as a musical act, for f*ck’s sake), I gathered myself together for this rebuttal. I am not, in fact, a cat lady, and here are the reasons why:

1) I Didn’t Even Want the Damn Cat

As I have already complained to everyone who will f*cking listen, I didn’t even want the damn cat. My aunts were at Wal-Mart and there was a lady giving away free kittens and my aunts decided I needed a new cat to replace my beloved old cat who’d died about a year prior. They mean well, but I seem to recall a wise proverb about good intentions and where they lead. There was also some muttering about how I “can’t live in that big old house all by [my]self.” F*ck you, I can if I want.

You're never alone when you have a plant.

The cat was insanely tiny when I got it, and had no business being away from its mother, and since my cold, hard heart isn’t completely cold and hard yet, I decided to keep it until it was old enough to give to a good home. Of course, by that time, I was attached. BUT NOT THAT ATTACHED, DAMMIT.

Feelings are for mortals.

2) My Cat Does Not Have a Long-Ass Name

Bubblegum Cari (from now on I’m just going to call her “Bubblegum,”) identifies “giving your cats long ass names” as a symptom of cat-ladyfication.

My cat’s name is Shoe. I gave him that name because, when he was small enough to fit in my pocket and therefore carry around conveniently, he really liked shoes.

A lot.

Other names I considered included Minute, because he was no bigger than one, and Pocket, because he was small enough to fit therein. I did not, however, consider calling him Corporal Minute Nobiggerthan Littleface, or Sir Pocket von Fittington, IV, because, contrary to all of the evidence, I am not in fact insane.


Furthermore, let the record show that most of the time I eschew using the cat’s real name in favor of calling him “the cat,” “that damn cat,” “that fucking cat,” or “the little asshole.”

3) I’m Not Giving It My Last Name

I don’t call the cat “Shoe McAtee.” To be honest I’d feel a little weird giving the cat my last name. After all, I didn’t give birth to it. I don’t even know that he wants my sh*tty name. Maybe he already has a cool name that can only be said in cat-language. Probably not, cause he spends half the day chasing his own tail and then growls at himself when he bites it. He might be a dog.


Needless to say, I’m not dressing it up in little outfits, throwing it birthday parties, or celebrating its wedding. I had it neutered, so there will be no wedding.

4) I Only Have the One Cat

I think most people can agree that a cat lady must have three to five cats, minimum, and that most cat ladies have all the cats in the tri-county area. I have one cat, and I don’t even like him that much. He climbs my legs, tries to eat my trusty plant, scratches my secondhand furniture and bites the fuck out of me every. Single. Day.

5) I Don’t Spoil the Little Asshole

Last week I bought a different brand of food from the one I usually buy him, because it was on sale on account of being almost expired, or something. I could tell he didn’t like it as much as he likes the normal brand, but I said, “You’re going to eat it anyway, you little asshole.” It’s not verbal abuse, because he doesn’t speak English.

I don’t buy the cat expensive toys, either. This ain’t my first rodeo, and I know that the likelihood a cat will completely ignore any toy/scratching post/bed/kitty jungle gym you buy for it increases depending on how much money you spent. I’ve spent a total of about twenty dollars on toys for the cat, and that’s only because I spent ten dollars on one of those plastic-donut-with-a-ball-inside things so that the cat can f*cking entertain itself for f*cking once and leave me the f*ck alone while I’m f*cking writing.

One of these. He doesn't like it much.

I also splurged and spent three dollars on a laser pointer, on the advice of a random ten-year-old in Petco. Why are small children advising strangers in pet stores? I don’t know, but I have to say, that kid was right. The f*cking cat loves the laser pointer and watching him try to catch the red dot is worth at least three dollars, if not more.

"It's on me! How did it get on me?!?"

The other seven dollars went to fuzzy mice, which promptly “got lost under the fridge,” which I’m pretty sure was just a ploy to get me to open up the broom closet/furnace room so the f*cking cat could sneak in there and hide behind the furnace, like the asshole that he is.

6) I Put Him Out Sometimes, Too

Now, I thought I was doing him a favor by letting him play outside once in a while. After all, how would you feel if you had to spend your whole life locked up inside a house? Even if the house was a mansion, you'd still crave fresh air and sunshine, right? So, I put him out sometimes. I mean, I'm only putting him out for short periods, since he's little, and I keep a close eye on him, since he still requires supervision (the other day he tried to eat a staple, for example). But, when he gets bigger, I intend to let him go outside pretty much as he pleases, and drag home dead things, in the tradition of his forebears.

I guess putting your cat out is the cardinal sin of cat ownership, however, because when I mention this to anyone, they look at me in horror and say, "You put him OUT?!?" as if I'd just said I put him in the oven, or something. "But, it's dangerous out there!" they always stammer. "He could get eaten by a fox! Or hit by a car! Or shot!"

To which I reply, "It's a cat, not a child. Calm down."

7) I Don’t Let It Sleep With Me, Either

The f*cking cat is permanently banned from my bedroom, because he goes in the closet and climbs my dresses. I’m a writer, I’m too poor to buy new clothes.

Besides, my plant is in the witness protection program.

Letting cats sleep with you is just asking for trouble. They wait until you’re just falling asleep and then walk across your face and wake you up. When you wake up in the morning, your mouth tastes like a cat’s ass because guess what. F*ck that. I make the little asshole sleep in the hallway. Of course, when morning comes and/or he’s out of food he starts scratching at the door to get me to wake up. I keep a squirt bottle in my room and, because I refuse to let a cat push me around, when he starts scratching at my door I open it up and SOAK THE LITTLE F*CKER.

I would make a terrible mom.