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.
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.
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.
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.
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.