Raising Cat

I don’t know if I want to be a mother. Some days I want to create a mini-Zoey, others I want to become the best, most favorite auntie in the world. But after raising the most sadistic cat on Earth, I’m pretty sure I’m capable. I’m referring to the she-devil, Killer. Her favorite past-time is to stand in the litter box, her butt just on the edge and pee on the floor, all while staring me right in the eyes. Like, “f*$# you, you’re not feeding me gourmet cans of tuna” stares.

Today, after using the restroom, she jumped out and frantically ran around the apartment like something was chasing after her.  Turns out, something was. Her own poop. It was hanging off of a long strand of hair, terrorizing her, while she ran under the bed, onto the couch and back and forth across the apartment. She was like a chicken with her head cut off.

It took me a minute to realize why she was acting so strangely. (She isn’t one who initiates physical activity, unless it’s to shove a sleeping Scout off the bed). So, like a good mother, I took some toilet paper and removed the menacing dingle berry.

Now if I could just figure out how to make her be a little less bitchy, we’d live in harmony. But I guess the apple-cat doesn’t fall far from the tree.



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