These days nobody would call me a cat lover. I complain about my feline companions often. The puke, the messy litter box, the shedding and the urine soaked attic of our last rental home (which cost us nearly $2000). Cats, not a fan.
But it wasn't always that way, not at all. At one point in my life you could have called me a cat fanatic. I loved the four legged creatures and was rather vocal about it. When I was in my early twenties I actually owned a cat sweater. I'm not joking. People used to email me crazy cat photos with great frequency. I was given cat related gifts, mugs, stationary, art, you name it. On our wedding day, the Cantor who married us actually mentioned our two four legged friends in her "sermon." I know. I know. I had crazy cat lady written all over me.
My, how things change. The truth is, a huge percentage of my life is effected by the bodily functions of cats. To begin with, cat litter pays our bills. That's right, my husband actually works for a cat litter company. He lives, breaths and dreams about cat crap. You can view his work here. It actually quite amusing. I justify the fact that my spouse does all the litter box cleaning by assuming he is doing company research with each scoop. But I cannot avoid cleaning up after my kitties, Wynkoop and Flanders. Flanders is at least thirteen years old. I'm not sure anymore. There was probably a time where we actually celebrated his birthday, but I'm blocking that out. That cat weighs about 5lbs. I can feel every bone in his scrawny little body. He pukes with great frequency and produces a great stench every time he uses the litter box, which is located in my office. Don't ask. I have to light candles and sweep up litter constantly just to make it through the work day. Just the other night I awoke to him pawing at my covers, doing "the litter box dance" because he had just done his business. On my bed. Yes it was gross. Very, very gross.
Wynkoop is about two years old. He is my grief cat. I picked him up after my beloved Wiggum passed away. I thought it would ease the pain. It did. For a while. Then the cute innocent kitten turned into a big ugly cat that likes to toss out litter with a mighty paw after every use. I sweep up litter. Lots and lots of litter.
Nobody in their right mind would ever adopt Flanders. This bag of bones could easily destroy a home in a matter of days. Giving him up to the humane society would be equivalent to a death sentence and I simply don't have it in me. Just look at his face. He is cute after all. I figure if we have to keep Flanders than we might as well keep Wynkoop. So we are two cat family. Even though I really don't like fur balls much at all.
And thus, my life is ruled by cats. Specifically the cat box. It pays our bills, it's with me in the office, and it keeps me sweeping and sweeping and sweeping day in and day out. While I'm grateful to cats across America for using litter boxes, I must say I am starting to despise the species.
In conclusion, would someone please instruct my husband to stop gifting me Kitty-Cat Christmas ornaments each and every holiday? What I really need is a nose plug and a new broom.