When I was in college, I went to Sweden for a summer. I
found myself on a farm, mucking horse stalls, baling hay for a little while,
and also working part-time installing ventilation systems and part-time at a
car-parts store. I do not like horses. I am not a cowboy. I do not know
anything about ventilation systems. And I take my car to a mechanic for nearly
everything. So clearly, I was pretty successful in all of my summer endeavors.
But despite all those different experiences, what sticks out most is waking up
one morning. That’s because I woke up to a nightmare. There was a cat, sitting
in my closet on a pile of my clothes, disemboweling a hare. Fun fact: the noise
of a cat tearing into a hare is loud enough to wake a person up.
When I realized what was happening, I ran downstairs to grab
a shovel. Not to kill the cat, but to shovel up the dead remains of a hare. By
the time I got back to the scene of the crime, the cat had dragged the hare
around two entire rooms, leaving blood and remains everywhere. It was like a
miniature murder scene. I cleaned up after the cat, cursing, and vowing to avoid
any dealings with cats again. Because one incident is enough. ‘Twas not to be.
I returned to Oregon to find that my roommates had adopted a
cat. A cat that enjoyed peeing in my room, pooping on my bathroom rug, and
generally screaming at me. But this was years ago. Nearly ten years ago, in
fact. Scars heal. Memories fade. That sort of thing. Yet here I am, rehashing
the trauma inflicted upon me by Lucifer’s handmaidens.
That’s because my girlfriend has cats. Two of them. I do not
like cats. For several reasons, including those outlined above. A few days ago,
those cats moved out to Wisconsin with AJR. By car. We were part of a small
caravan moving across the country. We drove almost a thousand miles with two
cats in the car. We also spent one night in a hotel with two cats. I tell
cat-owners this and they shake their head with a knowing smile. A knowing smile
that is full of empathy, sympathy, pity, even trauma. Smiles can say a lot.
That’s before I tell them that I was attacked by a cat at
3am. It dug its demon claws into my toes, while trying to communicate with its
banshee brothers through a wide-mouthed mawing. I buried my head in the pillow
and my feet in the sheets in hopes of trying to sleep. Or at least in hopes of
keeping my toes in tact and not stabbing pencils into my ears to dampen the
noise. Unfortunately, it was at this point that the cat decided it was best to
begin parading back and forth across my head as it screamed the scream of a
thousand spawns of Satan. For an hour. Around 4:00, I began plotting my
revenge. By 4:30, I was on the verge of tears. By 5:00, I was debating on
packing everything into the car, cats included, and driving the rest of the way
to Wisconsin. Unfortunately, the aforementioned caravan meant we were stuck.
Because if there’s one thing I learned from The Oregon Trail it’s that you
never leave your caravan behind. That’s how folks die of dysentery. Or
starvation because no one brought back 200 pounds of meat.
Eventually, AJR locked the cats into the bathroom. With the
air conditioning cranked up their screams were muffled and, for a few sweet
hours, I slept the sleep of a drunken baby. But Bruce Springsteen serenaded me
just a couple of hours later, and it was time to continue our drive westward.
My eyes burned. My body ached. My ears echoed. My toes were nervous. Suddenly,
the zombie-like state of my friends who have young children made sense. A
fitful sleep punctuated by screaming does not a rested person make. At least a
cat can be locked in a bathroom with some food, water, and a litter box. Pretty
sure that constitutes neglect if you replace the cat with a baby.
Welcome to Swedish America. And kattfan. Times two.
Lordylord Hairy... I have two cats so I can sympathize with your experiences. The first night after we got them they walked all over me the entire night, so no sleep for me before work that day. The second night one of them woke me up in the wee hours of the morning by chomping down on my big toe. I seriously regretted ever getting cats for the first six months (at least). But I've gotten used to them now and am actually quite fond of them now.
ReplyDeleteWow.
ReplyDeletePassade en knäpp katt en gång. Den gömde sig under sängen hela tiden. Tills jag öppnade dörren till trappan. Swoosh- ut.
Jag efter desperat. Kastar mig på katten och ligger och brottas på liv och död i trapphuset. Med en vansinnesskrikande best med klorna djupt i min ena arm. Nästa dag: vad är det för röd strimma på min arm? Jovisst, blodförgiftning och penicillin. Trodde det var en myt att man fick det. Naaww, kitty...