Cats Are a Bad Decision

So, you've decided to get a cat. You're making an important life decision by adding a new member to the family, and you're raring to go.

However, owning a cat is a big responsibility! It's a new life and a new family member, who's going to be around for a very long time.

15+ years, to be exact.

This article will offer some helpful hints on adopting your new best friend, and how to make the most out of your experience. 

 

Tip #1:

Don't get one. If for whatever reason you have decided to adopt a cat, for the love of God, this is your last chance. A cat won't be your best friend. A cat will be that annoying roommate that everyone hates, but is too afraid to kick out of the lease. Afraid. 

You're about to embark on the worst 15 (+) years of your life. Getting a cat is the worst thing you could possibly do to yourself and your family.

Think of them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cats are small, fuzzy balls of destruction, cunning, and absolute terror. You're preparing yourself for a lifetime of misery, vacuuming around a litterbox that is never completely clean, and waking up to a false onslaught of purring right beside your ear at 3:00 in the morning. 

 

He's not actually happy to see you, he just wants you to fill his food bowl right now, god dammit.

Tip #2:

God forbid you've already made up your mind. Or worse, your paperwork has already gone through for the adoption and now you're stuck with it. In this case, I have one piece of advice for you: do everything in your power to keep your cat happy. You can do everything possible to achieve this, just like he can do everything possible to make you absolutely miserable.

As you can see, your life is going to be in ruins while you strive to make it not so much.

That cat will break you.

 

Tip #3:

If you're absolutely stuck with the thing, I suggest you not buy anything nice for yourself for the rest of it's life span. (15 + years, in case you forgot). Your cat may enjoy belittling your intelligence and ruining your social life, but a cat enjoys nothing more than destroying anything you love. 

Rug? Pee on it.

Couch? Ruin that shit.

New electronic? Destroy the hell out of it.

Other family pets? Break their spirit.

 

 

You can't run, and you probably can't hide either.

Tip #4:

If you've adopted the newest member of the family, be prepared to be their servant for as long as they're alive. Cats have us wrapped around their tiny, sharp, dagger-like claws.

We feed them on a routine schedule. We clean up their waste. We provide entertainment and a place to sleep at night. For what? That's right: absolutely nothing.

"I guess I could rub against your leg or something."

 

Tip #5:

There is nothing I can tell you that will make the decision to own a cat any easier,  or less abrasive to your life. Cats ruin everything. Forever. Your social life and your freedom are both gone the moment that cat enters your house.

My Cat Hates Everything

Rascle has never been called a social butterfly.

On the contrary, he is the most antisocial member of the household. It is his sole duty in life to lead a private, miserable life and to let you know this every chance he gets.

Rascle hates everything. He's a vacuum for all that is good and fun in his life, and he will suck it dry until even the small shred of happiness doesn't have the will to fight back anymore.

He's a fun-sucker.

He hates everything, including me. It's only a matter of when and how he will show me. You see, "affection and kindness" aren't traits that come with a cat like Rascle. Rascle's emotional range goes from passive-aggressive to rage, with no room for kindness in between. It's a matter of what kind of hate he happens to be in the mood for that day.

The first method of showing his dislike for my general existence is to mark his territory. Rascle will pee on anything and everything. Now, this isn't "my litterbox is small" peeing, or "I have an infection" peeing. This is "I want to destroy this loved item and prevent it's further use" peeing.

He pees on boxes, pillows, blankets, beds, electronics, you name it. It's all fair game.

For anyone who owns or has owned a cat, you know that cat urine is perhaps the most potent and foul-smelling liquid on the planet. Not only does it smell bad in-the-now, it smells worse in-the-later after you've washed and scrubbed the living shit out of whatever it is that he's decided to ruin.

But to Rascle, it isn't ruined. It's simply his now. It's his space. He's so engulfed by his own misery that he feels the need to ruin anything that someone else in the household might gain happiness from. Because, how dare they? How rude, right?

If he can't be happy, nobody can.

 

(This is quite possibly the only thing he gains satisfaction from).

He has a variety of other methods for showing his hatred towards humanity. The second is pretending to be nice to everyone. This is usually only to get something he wants.

There's a reason that everyone in the household is confused when Rascle shows up in the family room and rubs against our legs. It's because it's such a rare occurrence that we're now dumbfounded by it's appearance. His kindness has now become an abnormal behavior.

Is that Rascle? ... No way bro. It just can't be.

But it is.

Rascle appears when he's hungry, and his facade is simply to remind you that his bowl is empty.

When you wake up at 3:00 in the morning to a chill down your spine, and turn over only to find him an inch from your face, this is to remind you that you're too late.

Game over, bitch.

He's going to wind all 30lbs. of himself between your legs tomorrow at the top of the stairs in hopes you fall to your death, and there's nothing you can do about it. 

 

(This is perhaps the second thing in life he gets enjoyment out of).

 His third way of expressing his distaste for the world is to beat up on his brother, Socks, who is innocent in all of these affairs. He doesn't involve himself if it isn't necessary, and he's almost always cowering on the sidelines somewhere in one of Rascle's revolts and plans.

Sometimes I think Rascle takes things out on him that simply aren't his fault, or aren't even related to him at all because he's there, and it's just too easy.

His bowl wasn't filled today? His litterbox wasn't spotless? Scratching the sofa wasn't as satisfactory as usual? Extra beatings.

Add this to his already self-important and pompous behavior, and Rascle really is just a douchebag.

The biggest of all.

Cats Don't Understand Psychology

Cats don't understand psychology. They just don't. It's beyond their comprehension, and goes far beyond their normal thought processes: eating and being selfish.

These two things are a cats primary goal in life, so it's understandable that a concept like psychology would go beyond their intellectual capacity. But I had to test my theory.

I had various experiments at the ready, and waited for the perfect opportunity to put them to use. However, life presented me with the perfect opportunity without any preparation time and planning.

Sometimes things work out that way.

I was sitting at my computer, probably procrastinating on some project or paper I should be writing. It's usually what I do when I'm sitting at my computer. My cat, Socks, took it upon himself to jump up and settle down.

This normally wouldn't be a problem. However, he seems to struggle with the settling down part.

For whatever reason, a cat becomes compelled to cause a mass amount of havoc and destruction whenever they're faced with a desk, dresser, table, or anything else above the ground. Socks was no exception.

My recently acquired houseplants were a filet freakin' mignon, and he got the highest satisfaction out of knocking things over with the object of destruction he called a tail.

After he had successfully knocked over my lamp, unplugged my computer, and disheveled Barnaby the plant, I decided that it was time for him to leave. It wasn't as easy to do as it was to decide it. Every time I reached for him, he took it upon himself to flop onto his side in a grandiose and exaggerated fashion, and then stretch himself as far as his little contortionist body would allow. This only caused more destruction and knocked some more items and knick-knacks askew. 

After much struggling on both of our parts, I finally picked him up and gently placed him on the ground.

Now, it's understandable if he didn't grasp the concept the first time. I understand, Socks. It's okay.

He didn't grasp it at all, and less than a minute later he had hopped back onto my desk. We went through the same procedures before I gently placed him on the ground for the second time.

Unfortunately, we repeated this process. The process never ended. I removed him, and he'd find a way to get back up again. My methods of getting him back onto the floor gradually grew more violent, and by the twelfth time I had resorted to heaving him onto my bed, hoping he'd get the message.

I built barriers out of stuffed animals, folders and other knickknacks I had lying around on my desk. It didn't work. He found a way to get around them or hurt himself trying, which he did on various occasions.

I'm not sure why my desk was so appealing, because it wasn't as if there was anything to gain by being up there. I've decided it was because he wasn't supposed to be up there, and much like a child he had made it his one and only goal to do exactly that: be where he wasn't supposed to be and cause trouble along the way.

Regardless, my tactics were failing. I had lost what little I had wrote of that english paper and a few sketches due to an untimely shutdown. Multiple untimely shutdowns.

As I looked at my (untouched) psychology folder, a thought came to mind. Ivan motherfucking Pavlov had led me astray.

Sock's stimulus was jumping onto the desk. The response was that he got his ass thrown off of it every time he tried. Why didn't he grasp this concept? Desk = get the hell off.

After making this discovery, I had to come to grips with the fact that my cat may be, possibly, retarded. This theory applies to all living things, does it not Ivan? Ivan?

Then again, they are called Pavlov's dogs.

However, I still stand by what I said. Cats don't understand psychology. Cats will take your classical conditioning and shove it back up your ass.

So in the end, maybe it's not that cats don't understand psychology. Maybe cats just don't give a shit.

My Cats Are In An Abusive Relationship

      Recently I began to notice a change in my cats’ normal behavior with one another. Both of the cats are from a farm, born from the same litter and obtained in a hasty and possibly shady fashion after our previous cat passed away.

     My sister and I were given the task of choosing and naming the kittens. The smaller one was, very originally, named Socks. My cat was named Rascle, with the letters in that order. I was far too stubborn as a child to admit that I made a spelling error. 

     I wanted it spelled that way. He was special that way. 

     Being brothers, there were no tricky introductions to go through when you normally introduce two cats to each other. For years they have lived happily and problem free.

     As they grew older they became fatter, a little less social, and slightly neurotic. As far as I was concerned, this was all normal behavior for two strictly indoor housecats. It was around this transition from kitten to cat that I noticed Rascle was gaining weight.

     I’m not going to lie to you, they were never small cats to begin with. I always chose to blame it on the fact that they were barn cats, and they had to be born big and burly. It was survival of the fittest out there. But somewhere deep inside I knew that they were just lazy cats who probably were fed more than they needed. I chose to give them the benefit of the doubt. They were big boned.

     Unfortunately, my theory was crushed when I decided that only Rascle was gaining weight. Socks was always a runt compared to his brother, but there was no mistaking the rolls that started to appear around Rascle’s middle, and the extra chins he started developing versus his healthy looking, slim brother.

     My cat was fat.

     But there was something unsettling about his sudden weight gain. We hadn’t switched foods, or even altered the amount they were getting. They both got a scoop each, twice a day at designated times. But I reasoned that they were simply getting older and they weren’t as active as they used to be.

     To combat this problem, I lowered the amount of Purina they were getting each day.

     This was not a good plan.

     Their sudden decrease in food started an uproar among them: a cat revolution. Most of the revolting was on Rascle’s part, and Socks was an innocent bystander on the side who occasionally cheered for his team. But I stood my ground. I wouldn’t fall prey to the constant crying and neediness they exhibited. 

     I was strong.

     They finally decided that I wasn’t going to increase their food again. Their efforts were futile, and had been for nothing. This angered them. I'm sure they still hold a grudge to this day.

     It was at this time that I noticed the change.

     Not only was Rascle (still) gaining weight, but Socks had begun to shed the few extra pounds he had. He was withering away. I naively assumed that it was stress. Around this time we recently acquired a dog. It turned Socks’ whole world upside down. They still don’t get along to this day.

     Pebbles the dog seemed to get satisfaction of the highest degree out of chasing the poor cat. It could have been the recently added exercise to his life that was causing him to shed the pounds. 

     Right? Wrong.

     He continued losing weight, and Socks was as neurotic and frantic as ever. It appeared as if he spent his entire life in fear, peering around every corner and walking in stealth. 

 

     I told myself it was the dog. The dog just enjoyed torturing the poor cat, so he must have been on the lookout. Wrong again. I came to the harrowing realization one day that it wasn’t my dog that Socks was living in fear of. It was his very own brother.

     I was engaging socks in a game of “shoelace.” He was on my bed, and Rascle had settled all 30lbs of himself in the corner and was looking miserable as usual. Socks, however, was having a wonderful time. The game had gotten to a particularly exciting point when Rascle stood up. Now, it’s a rare occurance when Rascle sits up after a long period of not moving. It’s just not in his nature. But he sat up and delivered the most mean-spirited wallop to Sock’s face that I have ever seen.

     He returned to his indented corner on the mattress as if nothing had ever happened.

     Socks, however, seemed horrified. It was as if the shoelace I was holding was the epitome of fear itself. Fear. He wouldn’t play with me any longer. I deliberately tried to annoy him with the shoelace, hoping he’d act out of anger. He didn’t.

     This brought me to my epiphany.

     I decided to test my theory by removing one of the food bowls out of the two they’re normally offered, and I filled it with the usual amount of goodies at feeding time. Socks tried to advance.

     He tried very hard.

     But a swift beating had him waiting at the edge of the window ledge while Rascle devoured 90% of what was in the bowl, leaving soggy crumbs behind for Socks. He waited until Rascle was gone until he even thought about eating it. Thinking wasn’t allowed in his presence.

     What I thought was, indeed, true. Rascle was gaining weight, and Socks was losing what little body mass he had left, because Rascle had beat him into submission. Rascle ate first, and that was final.

     I began to notice other subtle changes after I discovered the cause of their weight problems.

     Rascle entered a room first. Socks was walloped if he even a whisker crossed the threshold.

     Rascle had first choice of bowls. If he wasn’t satisfied with his own when he was through, it was time for Socks to move over.

     Rascle decided what sort of play was and wasn’t acceptable in his presence.

     Around this realization, Socks began to cry whenever he was faced with the most trivial problem. He cried, and cried, and cried until his tiny little voicebox was sore. This was to the greatest annoyance of my family.

     In the end, I decided not to get mad at him for crying at us all night long. I thought that he was probably just telling us how horrible his life is, and how he probably didn’t eat that day.

     Today, they’re still in the worst sort of bromance. I occasionally find nails hanging off of Socks’ face and he still struggles with losing weight, as Rascle struggles with gaining it. But after a few years of trying, I’ve given up. They’re going to stay in their abusive relationship until one of them dies.

     Now it’s only a matter of whether it will be an obesity or stress related death. Bets anyone?