This cat thing is soooo not working out. P., of course, loves the cat. I have Claritin and an inhaler, so I can tolerate the cat as far as allergies and asthma go (so far, at least), but the longer it’s here, the less I want it here. It is supposed to sleep on its bed, which it does occasionally, but for the most part, it can be found sleeping on the chesterfield or one of the kitchen chairs, or somewhere on the carpet. The carpet bothers me the least–though it does mean I can’t lie on the floor anymore–but since there’s goddamned cat hair all over the chesterfield (in spite of my enthusiastic vacuuming efforts), I can’t go sleep in the living room if P. does his Fred Flintstone impression, as he does on many nights. I don’t mind the cat on one of the kitchen chairs because it isn’t the one I usually use, so I’m not going to get cat hair all over my arse if I sit down, but the problem is that the cat doesn’t stay on the kitchen chair, it sneaks up onto the table and sits beside Cliffie’s tank. I know it does because for goddamned sure none of the fish, shrimp or crabs gets up there and knocks stuff down, and yet it gets knocked down. It also gets up in the north window of the kitchen and terrorises poor old Ubie. I swear I’ll drown the goddamned thing myself if it hurts any of my fish or knocks over one of the tanks on metal stands (like Ubie’s). On his third try, P. got a litterbox that I can bear because it’s closed in so the cat can’t fling litter all over the floor, and even has a little flap door on the front to keep down the stench. That doesn’t mean the cat can’t get litter on the carpeted floor, it just means there’s less of it. Neither does that mean that cat shit smells like roses (it doesn’t), or that I can’t smell the litterbox even though (to his credit) P does clean it every day. I certainly can smell it, and although it’s in the spare room that’s used only for storage and my live food cultures (the only place in the house I could stand it), it’s still in the house and it’s still…cat shit. I don’t mind that the cat thinks my community tank is its own personal Kitty TVâ„¢, and that it watches African Cichlid TV when the tetras and cories go to commercial, but I goddamned well do mind the shredded styrofoam all over the floor. Styrofoam is under the tanks to help level them and take pressure off the bottom glass, not to provide claw-sharpening material for a cat. It has a scratching post and (so P tells me) does use it, but that’s in addition to the arm of the chesterfield, the carpet in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, and any woodwork that should happen to be nearby when it thinks its claws need sharpening. I haven’t caught it on the kitchen counter yet, but I know cats, so I know it will happen. I’m not sticking tape all over my fucking house, either; if the cat is on the counter, the cat is getting very wet, very fast, and it’ll just have to learn the hard way.

It’s a very quiet cat, it’s cute, and the cat toys all over the floor don’t bother me at all. Cat food stinks, and I’ve learned to navigate around the dish on the floor even when the kitchen is dark. I don’t really mind cleaning up bits of cat food off the floor, even though I have to do that twice a day (otherwise asking for roaches). P. likes the cat, and I like P., and don’t mind the cat itself too much now that it’s associated me with the words, “No” and “Get down” and doesn’t stick to me like velcro, but there is a reason that I prefer to keep furry, uncaged animals outside or in a barn…because that’s where I think they belong. I didn’t want a cat, and–surprise–I still don’t want a cat because (wait for it)…I don’t particularly like cats! I never have, and I never will.