A Taste of Thy Liver-Flavored Medicine

858 EyesIt’s 1 a.m. The only two living beings in my house – me and the cat, I exclude spiders and silver fish – are on the couch. The B Monster is curled up, one of her paws covering her eyes so that she can snore away and blissfully dream of liver-flavored mice and the days when she had genitals. There’s nothing as comforting and heart-warming as the sight of a sleeping cat. A sleeping cat exudes absolute comfort. 100% relaxation.

So, I start messing with her. I stick my nose as close to her face as I can and blow a thin line of air at her.  She peeks open an eye and looks confused. “What are you doing, fat man?” I pull on her ear. Pinch her tail. Stick my butt in her face. She closes her eyes, a low moan in her throat tells me in kitty language, “Fuck off, fat man.”

But I don’t. It’s just starting.

I have written about the trials and tribulations of having a cat. I know, I know – I’m that guy. And sure, cats are cute and sweet and furry. But they also have a secret book on torturing their owners just for shits and giggles. There is the middle of the night door scratching, the good morning anus in your face, and the surprise bladder pouncing. There are the unspeakably frantic freak outs, the staring contests, and bleeding more than a non-combatant should.

Sometimes you have to give your cat a taste of her own medicine. These times may or may not coincide with a period when the cat seems incapable of capturing her poop within her litter box.

After I rouse the animal with several barking noises and a few well-placed presses to her (hopefully full) bladder, the B Monster stands, stretches and then we battle.

I am bleeding. But I’ve ruined her sleep. Tie.

The next morning is glorious. I bite the B Monster’s tail. She reacts exactly how you think she does (yes, I am bleeding again). Then I hold my butt in front of her face. This doesn’t disturb her as I thought it would and am forced to change tactics.

I decide on the freak out angle. That afternoon, I sit at my computer, quietly reading and typing away. The B Monster is in that state of perfect content, squatting on her haunches next to the computer. Without warning, I leap up and run out of the room. The cat reacts as only a cat can, with a mixture of confusion and terror. Every hair on her body is puffed up; a hairy blowfish. She darts out of the room with me, as though to help me fight the threat that has caused my flight. She hides under the couch. She wants the ankle view.

Hiding is a good sign. Advantage me.

As I sit at work later in the evening, she makes an appearance, wanders around my room, and chomps into my Achilles tendon. I begrudgingly award her the point. Then I pour her some food.

An analysis of these battles, the motives, tactics, wins, losses, and ties leads me to deduce one thing:

I need a fucking hobby.

Cat people – you know who you are – how would you give your cat a taste of their own medicine?

  1. #1 by Andy on January 25, 2014 - 6:42 am

    I laughed entirely too hard at this: Point Dame/B-monster

  2. #2 by Allison on January 25, 2014 - 10:21 pm

    Too funny Dame 🙂

    When I was little I used to dress my cats up in doll clothes. How I managed to do this without losing an eye is still a mystery, but if you can finagle it there are great pictures to be had.
    Alternately there is the spray bottle, which always wins arguments with the cat, or silly string, if such a thing exists in Prague.

  3. #3 by The Jake on February 1, 2014 - 2:42 am

    I shave my bodyhair over his food dish, and yell and bang on the bedroom door when he’s having sex. Just like I did with you.

  4. #4 by The Jake on February 1, 2014 - 2:43 am

    I shave my body hair over his food dish, and I yell and bang on the bedroom door when he’s having sex. Just like I did with you.

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