Damien Galeone

Phase 1

It all starts with a light tapping at the bedroom door and a peepish mewing that is meant to draw me out of bed with its cuteness. It never works, so the tapping progresses to a scratching and the mewing goes to a deranged sound, sort of the way the Swamp Thing might moan if he were hungry and tripping on acid. She’s giving me the opportunity to let her in before she lets herself in.

I stuff my face back into my pillow, and hope that she’ll find a tiny animal to torture – maybe that bee that flew in the flat last night or a spider. Perhaps I’ll start importing mice.

In my dreams, Benedict Cumberbatch and I are having a picnic on a red and white blanket. We are both wearing suspenders and he’s telling me about the new season of Sherlock. I hear a click. In the dream, and in reality, I pull the blanket over my toes; she always goes for the toes first.

I look at the clock: 6:12 a.m.

Since she has learned to open doors I haven’t slept past 7 a.m.

Humorous Commentary

I have no interest in having children. Many of my friends own these shrieking crap factories and have watched their libido disappear along with their hair, content, money and sleep. Not for me. This has been an issue; it has even ended a relationship:

(Dramatization)

We are in bed, post-nookie.  

Her: “Don’t you think it would be amazing to have children together? I mean, cute little mes and yous in our house. Wow…”

Me: “Do we have any of that taco soup left?”

Bam! Single.

And I was happy about it. I don’t want another me running around. In fact, you don’t want another me running around. There isn’t enough Becherovka in Karlovy Vary. I always thought I was winning the game not having a child and I let that go to my head.

And then I got a cat. And not just a cat, but the feline reincarnation of Che Guevara and Gilbert Gottfried (I know Godfrey’s not dead, but I am in a bad mood and can’t think of a dead person more annoying than him, so fuck off!)

But now I am paying for my arrogance.

Phase 2

When she realizes that my toes are hidden from attack, cat flicks envelopes and the sides of papers until I shout something in my edgy sleep. Then she moves into pushing things off my dresser. I try to clear the dresser before bed, but she finds things and I think she brings things in the room just to put them on the dresser and then knock them off.

When someone in this world can explain why cats push stuff off of dressers, I will advocate them for the Nobel Prize.

Phase 3

This phase is just, well, rude.

Cat walks on my face, throat, arms and stomach. She is so adept at locating and standing on my full bladder that there is no way she doesn’t look at pictures of the human anatomy on Wikipedia when I’m at work.

First she stands on the bladder with her pointy little paws, then uses it as a trampoline to launch her into combat with my resting limbs.

Fortunately, this phase all takes place under the immediate and constant specter of a cat ass.

Phase 4

Resistance is futile. I give in and roll out of bed. Cat runs around the flat until I feed her. She eats a few bites as I make coffee. She lounges out on the couch and, after a nearly pornographic self-cleaning regimen, stretches, yawns and sleeps.

Counter Attack

Paybacks are a bitch. Well, in this case, paybacks are a caffeinated asshole who works at home.

Phase 1

I begin by playing with her tail and pulling her ears until she opens her eyes in irritation…