how to piss off a cat - a manual

while i'm busy writing a book on how to piss off our cat, Mama P is actually writing.

for a magazine. Good Housekeeping, no less.

but i'm not bitter. nooooooooo.

i, on the other hand, am trying to translate a work schedule from East Coast to West Coast. oh, and i'm making my cat hate me.

h-a-t-e me. and while i don't have a professional writing job, i do have this blog, and you are stuck with me. read on, if you dare.

last night, the manager of our complex called to ask permission to possibly let a plumber in our place today. see, our downstairs neighbor, while nice enough, is convinced that a) Brendan is building a Harley Davidson from scratch in our living room and b) we are doing everything possible to our plumbing to ensure that his plumbing is messed up.

dang. our evil plan to drive him s-l-o-w-l-y i-n-s-a-n-e has been discovered!

of course, with a plumber coming over, this means i need to lock up Elvis the WonderKat.

oh yeah. that'll be fun.

in case you didn't already know. we don't let him out. stress plus our cat equals the cat having an seizure. now mind you, in the eight years since we've moved upstairs (and the other cats don't sit outside our patio door, tormenting him), he's had one, maybe two seizures.

oh, and he occasionally tries to make a break from his human overlords to freedom!

way back in the day, when Husband & i were still dating, i would take the train down to Oceanside; Brendan would pick me up at the train station. so, on this particular Friday, he left for work, worked all day, was at the station by 6:30 when my train arrived, picked me up, and off to dinner we went.

a couple of hours later, we were home. off i went looking for the cat.

Elvis? Ellllll-vissssssss!

dammit.

we searched all over the apartment. then, downstairs, and around the complex (which was REALLY large with LOTS of BUSHES. DARK bushes. Elvis is a black cat.

oh yeah. this'll be a cinch.

we searched for hours. we even spent about half an hour, chasing after another black cat, who, probably went home to his family and said "sheesh. you would NOT believe the night i've had."

we got home late. i cried myself to sleep.

just before Brendan gave up for the night, he thought of going back downstairs to see if the security guard might have seen Elvis. as he walked towards the shack, Brendan saw a streak racing by.

"Elvis?"

the streak stopped. turned. then ran past him, up the stairs and to Brendan's front door, yelling the whole way:
"duuuuude.duuuuuude.WHERETHEHELLHAVEYOUBEEN,IHAVEBEENOUTHEREALL
DAMNDAY,HUNGRY,THIRSTYANDHUNGRY! DIDIMENTIONHUNGRY? DIDYOUNOT REALIZEIHAVEBEENOUTALLDAY? HUH? HUH??? LETMEINLETMEINLETMEINNOW!!
DUUUUDE!! I HAD TO PEE OUT.SIDE. THAT'S WRONG. LETMEINLETMEINLETMEIN!"

didn't know i could translate Catanonese, did you?

back to today.

i locked the cat in our second bedroom..it has his box, food, water, and of course my scrap stuff. which, of course, he has paid me back for by knocking stuff off my desk.

Elvis spent the last five minutes i was home this a.m. scratching at the door and yowling as if we were tormenting him:
"whyyyyyyy? whyyyyyyyyyy arrrrrrrrrrrrre you tormenting meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee? have i
not given you love? did i not stop puking in your shoes? do i not allow you to share
myyyyyyyy bed?"

he knows how to kill me.

when i did get home tonight and let him out, he was his usual feline bipolar self. squalling at me for leaving him locked up all day, then imploring me to pet him and immediately brushing me off for trying to do what he wanted.

it's like living with an irrational, PMSing woman 24/365.

ooops. poor Brendan.

wait...maybe it's a good thing i don't write professionally. i'm not sure any editor would go for an article/story that goes from work to a cat to PMS.

that's me. all over the place.

time for an intervention.

this is something i never had the courage to admit here before: i have an addict in our house.

not a diet Coke addict (that would be me). not a coffee addict (Husband). not even a pain killer addict (that would be me, or at least what my mom was convinced i was during all my back problems.).

come on in. it's time we save him from himself.

yep. Elvis. he's addicted to black tar heroin. only he calls it 'catnip.'

the worst part...i'm his dealer.

surveillance photos prove it.

here we are, negotiating the deal. you can clearly see the desire for the goods. and it's quality stuff, man.

shooting up. or snorting in this case.

the throes of the high.

addiction is not pretty.

and i need help, too, because i continue to enable him.

pray. pray that we both find the help we so desperately need.