My Cat Is Trying to Kill Me

Tue 11.30.10 | 19 comments

I am now giving in to the pressure of the internet and I am going to write a post about my cat. This is quite possibly the lowest thing you can do on the internet. It’s just barely above slapping some Impact font with a 2px black outline over a photo of a cat.

This past summer, I was home from work with the flu or a hangover or temporary diabetes or something. I had been talking about getting a kitten for sometime, but never could due to a series of banal excuses (such as a previous room mate’s allergies). Now free of such trivial issues, I could get all the kittens I want! Ever a believer in the scientific law of “shit or get off the pot,” I began lurking CraigsList for casual kitten encounters. Upon finding a poorly worded ad that described a kitten that was just the right size and color, I boarded a train and rode north to basically New Hampshire and came home several hours later with a kitten.

She is helping me work.

I named her Sisyphus.

Sisyphus is a lunatic. Her favorite activity is climbing the walls. More accurately, attempting to climb the walls. She jumps about 4 feet in the air, grasps on with her claws, and slides down – producing a deafening screech, like a dozen fingernails on a really big chalkboard. Sissy’s second favorite activity is meowing in the kitchen at nothing. This is adorable, so I let it pass.

This is her killing things.

Another favorite activity of little Sissy’s is to cause sleep deprivation. I already have a rocky relationship with sleeping. I love sleeping, like a wine connoisseur loves wine. But, I hate going to sleep, like a crippled wine connoisseur hates climbing stairs.  Sleeping usually equates to about 45 minutes of rotating under my covers until my body stops moving, and then about 5 hours of jolting awake in 45 minute intervals. I sleep most solidly in the last few hours before the alarm ruins my life. Naturally, this is when Sisyphus wants attention.

Night terrors, thy name be kitten.

Around 4am, Sisyphus realizes that something is missing in her life. The taste of sweet, succulent flesh. Any flesh will do, but mine seems to be preferred. Or should I say prefur’d? No, spell check is indicating I was right the first time.

When Sissy gets the taste for flesh, nothing can stop her. She will slowly skulk across my bed, find a patch of exposed skin – be it my arms, my legs, the small of my back, or the back of my neck – and she will begin feverishly licking it. This is not just licking, but Detective Monk-style obsessive compulsive behavior. If I kick her out of my room, Sissy sits outside my door, yowling. Then she starts throwing herself into the door.

I’m sure you must be thinking “Oh, kitty wuvs you with kisses!” or some such bullshit. No. Don’t fall for it. It’s a trick.

Do not trust this face.

Let’s just set aside that this tiny, 3 pound kitten is trying to eat me nightly. What she is doing is akin to torture. This is sleep deprivation! Do you know where else they do this? Guantanamo Bay. Sisyphus does not give a shit about the Geneva Convention.

Torture was only the start.

Being a man of proper hygiene, I had just stepped out of my evening shower. My hair was scented with the finest of Head & Shoulders, my wet, dripping body wrapped in but a towel. It was erotic, I tell you that.  I step out of the bathroom, clothe myself enough to not feel ashamed to walk by the windows, and finish my grooming process. Part of this process is to clean my ears with an off-brand Q-tip. I nonchalantly inserted the off-brand Q-tip into my head when, out of nowhere, Sisyphus leaps to the top of a nearby chair, and rushes into my arm. If not for quick thinking and nearly inhuman reflexes, I would have a Q-tip lodged into my brain. I would have died, seizing, vomiting, and wetting myself.

Murder murder murder kill kill kill.

War. War never changes.

At this point in time – by which I mean as of the moment I finish this sentence – Sissy is barely 6 months old. Every day, she is growing. Her legs becoming more powerful. Her teeth sharper. Her knowledge of the vital pressure points on the human body all the more detailed. If Sisyphus continues to escalate at her current rate, she will be able to leap over my head in 2 months time. In 5 months time, she will keep me awake indefinitely. In a year, well… I might be dead, my torso hollowed out, transformed into a morbid cockpit, Sisyphus sitting within my ribcage, controlling my body by pulling on my tendons like a terrible marionette.

Isn't she cute though?

Be Sociable, Share!

    Posted under: ,

    19 Comments

    • Melanie done said:

      I can’t wait to see if you’re alive in a year. She’s very cute. Keep posting photos even though you hate the thought of doing it.

    • Sarah done said:

      “Awwww, Kitty wuvs you with kisses!!” She’s so darn cute!

      • HP done said:

        Except for the whole “murder” part, yes, she is very cute.

      • Sarah done said:

        Hey, I want a little picture next to my name – how do I get one of those? 🙂

        • HP done said:

          Responded on Facebook!

    • Angela done said:

      She’s quite cute.

      More pictures! Do it!

    • Tom! done said:

      When she jumps 4-5 feet in the air and screeches down a wall, she does it entirely while staring Chris dead in the eye. She wants him to know that she could bore into his chest like some horrible reverse face-hugger Alien.

      She just chooses not to.

    • Travis done said:

      Like there weren’t enough cats on the internet in the first place…

      • Travis done said:

        I can haz lolcat?

        • HP done said:

          Fuck you.

          • jutta done said:

            Travis, maybe one day someone will come along and love you.
            HP I’m with you

    • Riz done said:

      Ok, I am sitting here, reading this on my ‘droid, laughing my butt off. She WILL calm down. Try bribing with chicken.
      Too. Frickin. Cute.

      • HP done said:

        The more meat I give her, the more she climbs up me, like a horrible totem.

    • Carl done said:

      You’re a good mommy to that cat HP. She won’t kill you. She luuuuuuuuuuuuuuuvs you.

    • Angela done said:

      You know, I saw somewhere that if you put a laminated poster on your door, cats will stop clawing at it ’cause they don’t like how it feels.

    • Ashley done said:

      Pretty sure she’d find a way to turn said laminated poster into a weapon!

    • northierthanthou done said:

      Syssyphus is doing it right.

    • John Cook done said:

      Uh-Huh, I know what you are suffering. I too have a kitty monster. He is named Littleboy, and was found as a 6 month old feral kitten in Mexico. He was a cat that never wanted to be touched. No, not ever. Took me three weeks to even get close to him, an years to have him enjoy being petted.

      With all my regret, I worked that “look and feed, but no touchie” problem cat slowly out of him. You see, most animals, after learning a response to a particular fear, are so apt to continue that response, that most trainers would consider them permanently afflicted. For the most part that is true. I was a behavioral scientist before becoming disabled, so I think I have what it takes, and I work out a plan for Littleboy’s recovery.

      My Littleboy is cute and has a gift for making people love him. He rolls on his back the moment he sees anyone, and tucks his paws under his neck as he rolls around most seductively. You reach down to touch him and he moves away. Not far, but far enough, and he rolls over again. He does this without fail.

      I worked with him, as his kitty psychologist, until he finally liked being petted. That took about five years. So… today he loves attention and has taken to insuring that I sleep no more than three to four hours a night if I fail to properly pet him on demand during the day. Like my plan to tame him, he developed one of reward and punishment that insured I give attention when he demands it. I haven’t figured it out, but I do know that part A of his plan is knowing just how irresistibly cute he is. So he attacks at the most disruptive times, and he knows I will never yell at him–because this kitteh is the end all in super cuteness, and because I love him.

      He gets me whenever he wants attention but when I’m busy and neglect him, he gets me at night when I’m sleeping. I won’t notice him climbing on to me, he is so incredibly sneaky for a large cat. But once he reaches my shoulder, out come that alien devils claws. He begins with the soft stomp. A routine of kneading, or alternating his left and right paws as he places pressure on me. If I don’t respond, then the claws come out. This is where the pressure intensifies. It’s a push down, engage claws, then pull up. He repeats this in one-second intervals as he switches paws rhythmically. This routine can go on forever if I don’t reach up to pet him, and the blanket and sheet as well as my skin will soon be shredded.

      So, on the nights I decide to ignore him he climbs off me and sticks his head under the covers in search of my face. That is the real story and we will get to it momentarily.

      OK, a question, what is worse to a sleeping person than a cat piddy-patting (also called making biscuits, or kneading) on your shoulder or back relentlessly? Cats are known to do this AND drool, they could also include meows or grunting, however my Littleboy has a specialty. He does all three, AND he additionally farts, sometimes explosively. That’s when the making biscuits routine accelerates, the purring becomes guttural, and the drooling increases until you worry about dehydration… oh, and that big wet spot on your back too.

      Let me tell you what is so much worse than a cat stomping, meowing, purring gutturally and farting loudly that it cannot be ignored. First however, a little background. My Littleboy is an especially cute cat, a simi-long haired tabby with a black back and a soft white tummy. He is a little round–because he is unusually muscular, not fat, and he is so beyond cute, women simply swoon over him.

      I do try to be welcoming, and polite, and even loving when he begins his nightly routine. After all, this cat has the power to charm, and charm, and charm.

      Sometimes I attempt to ignore him hoping he will stop. I NEED some sleep! If I close the door with him out, he will insistently bang on the door and shred the rug until I again allow him entrance. There is not much of the rug left before the door, and now the door is so loose I have to stuff a rag in the side it so it will latch. Littleboy has proven many times that he can outlast me, and also displayed signs that refusing to give in to his demands could be regretfull.

      After a nightly round of his piddy-patting on me, locking him out, door ratteling, rug shredding, howling, meowing, and farting, I have been kept awake for at least an hour. Sigh… I allow him back in. But now he doesn’t seem to want in. He lies down by the door and gives me that look. It reminds me of the kitty in Shrek. Big eyes, so sad, and please don’t lock me out AGAIN! So I don’t.

      I give up and return to bed, but I bring out my own defenses. I instal some heavy protection from his long black claws, his drooling, and his farts by putting on a heavy old quilt that he can shred for all his worth. I hide under the thing with an old bandanna over my nose. Finally protected, I can go back to sleep. Right?

      Oh goodness, hell no I can’t. Not with littleboy plotting my fate I can’t.

      I’m certain my little boy is a small but very intelligent alien sent to diagnose human frailties. He must be. Before I pull that old quilt over my head, I look and as usual, Littleboy is laying outside the door. He appears to be contentedly napping, and I can hear him purring lightly. All he wanted was the door opened so he can see that I am safe. I surmise that he worries about me, and I am content he will not bother me again. The fool that I am, I go back to sleep.

      I’m certain he lets an hour go by to insure I am safely asleep, then he begins his plot. He must use levitation or have superior kitty creeping techniques, because I never feel him coming at me. I never see him, smell him, or hear him, but several times I have woken up to notice that he is only four inches from my face, an irregular shape in the gloom of night. I can tell he is ready, He doesn’t move, twitch, meow, or fart. Nothing, just a strong presence in the night.

      But he is not asleep nor is he content. He is plotting my fate. This time however, he is set on employing one of the cats most fearsome weapons. A weapon only used on highly resistant, very deep sleepers. He is going to use the worst “wake up and pay me attention” move a sleeper has ever known.

      He silently and stealthily creeps under the covers and stares at me from about four inches away. He must be waiting for his eyes to be razor sharp in the dark as his next move is a claw that noiselessly hooks and then slides up my bandana. Then he waits. Possibly insuring I am solidly asleep. Then he moves in a quick and decisive manner with awesome accuracy as he jams at least six whiskers well up my nose and twitches his head vigorously.

      That move will get your attention, and there is no way you can ignore it. The human that can tolerate cat whiskers deep up the nose has not yet been born. It instantly sends me vertical in the bed, my nose itching like I had a Mexican jumping flea inside deep in the throes of working off an overly invigorating cocaine high.

      I am rubbing and rubbing and rubbing my nose in an attempt to quiet the worst tickle (itch?) I have ever had the displeasure of experiencing. It takes longer than I can stand. Soon I’m up, at my writing desk, piles of Kleenex scattered everywhere as I repeatedly jam a Kleenex covered pencil halfway to my brain, running it in circles to penetrate further. It doesn’t seem to help. That itch is persistent and I will try anything to get over it, as I eye the fireplace tools.

      But soon, and mostly on it’s own, the itch recedes. And as if Littleboy knew (planned?) just the right time, he is next to me meowing and tapping my leg so I will move back a bit and let him have a spot on my lap. If I ignore him, the claws come out and that tap turns into a prickly demand. So I always surrender.

      I am fully awake now and I have a pile of warm fur in my lap purring softly, begging to have his face rubbed. Awwww, what a cute kitty. My eagerness to absolutely throttle the evil beast has left, and I succumb to him just as he knew I would.

      I justify this with “I work at home so I can always take a nap later” and begin writing another chapter in my book on religious history or I work on my new website. I have learned that going back to bed now is complete folly… There are small, intelligent aliens with sharp claws about, and they mean business.

      Fortunately, that Littleboy kitteh, knows not to bother me during my two hour nap. I always nap with a rolled up newspaper and staunch determination to sleep. He has never come in so I wonder why I have to continue clutching that old, wrinkled newspaper, but I still do. Littleboy is seven years old now, he has never woken me at nap time. Do you think he really knows? I would bet on it!

      I thought his tricks were worthy of a poster so I drew a very slick eight block cartoon on two rows. I showed him plotting my fate. It is definitely one of my best works. I keep planning to put lithographed copies up for sale, but this is my Littleboy kitty, and I love him so much that I would wonder if I was making a mistake selling his poster–and reveling that he is part of a large group of small wicked aliens who invaded earth millions of years ago. That could make him mad too, and that’s probably not a good idea.

      So I will tolerate my Littleboy ketteh as long as necessary and always rub that soft whit tummy because it makes him grunt and purr, and drool–and occasionally fart something horrible.

      If you haven’t smelled a kitteh fart, don’t! I’m certain it’s a powerful gas that can kill, well, over time and slowly. Cause that’s how they do it.

    • J. Anthony Carter done said:

      You know, I CAN see it. At first I was easily taken in by the warm fuzzies she exudes, apparently without trying. But just there, in the knapsack picture, dead center in the middle of the eyes lurks the death of which you speak!!
      Dude, you’ve got to get rid of that cat before she goes all “Twilight Zone” on your ass and her next owner is nonchalantly cleaning ‘you’ out of her litter box still wondering what happened to the guy who WAS raising her!!

    Leave a Reply

    Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *