The Pussy (Cat) Diary: Getting My Revenge

The Pussy (Cat) Diary: Getting My Revenge

As dictated by Sabine (the cat) and transcribed by Renee (the Mom) & Lulu (the kid) 

A Day in the Life Of Sabine

A cat’s life is never easy. Cats are really smart but physically,  the domestic breed is  pretty small.  Thus, some humans immediately label me as having “a complex.”  I dont’ know what it is and I don’t want to know.    I’m almost 20 years old.  That’s like 100 in human years.  It’s no wonder that I need therapy!  Check the most recent page from my diary:

Day #998

  • 6:55 a.m.: I am now awake and ready to eat!  But my keeper is not out of bed and waiting to feed me!  I need to remedy this and start to sing as loudly and as off tune as possible. (Little do they know that I have pooped at the bottom of the landing of the stairs!  “What your step!  Oops….that’s a rotten way to start your day!”  HeHeHe!)
  • 7:00 a.m.  Did I mention watch your step? Got her! Ha!
  • 7:02 a.m.: Oh! That smell! That horrible, fishy smell fills the air as she opens a small metal disc. My stomach churns.  If it wasn’t for my arthritic hips, I would jump on my keeper with my claws and show her who’s really boss!  Darn hips!
    • The Beast is stupid too: it dives into its by-product dish of food and devours it.  
    • After it’s finished, the Beast burps in my direction, regurgitates some of its food and then eats it again.  Primitive Creature!
  • 7:05 a.m. In retaliation, I throw up all of my food just to get back at my keeper.  That disgusting beast eats it too!   
  • 8:00 a.m.: The Keeper has put a leather rope around the Beast’s throat and taken it outside for what I assume is a chance to escape from this prison.  Strangely, it comes back and seems happier than ever. It must be the pills she puts in its food every morning.
  • 8:15 a.m.: The Keeper is going out.  She grabs a snack for the Beast and lures it downstairs using this sweet sing-songy voice saying “Come on sweet baby” repeatedly.  It climbs into its iron prison the humans refer to as “a crate.”  Stupid Beast!
  • 9:00 a.m.:  I venture downstairs to make sure the Beast isn’t dead.  I know that I would get blamed somehow if the dog “kicks it.”  It’s still alive.  It looks at me with pathetic, sad eyes as if asking me to let it out of “the crate.”  As if!
  • 9:02 a.m.: I decide to torment the Beast: my daily pleasure.  I slowly stroll back and forth in front of the cage. I like to comment about the joy of having the house to myself and how sad it is that the Beast has to spend the day in a small cage while I can wander freely through the entire house   YAWN…Every few minutes the Beast lunges at me.  But I just sit in front of the cage and smile.  I could unlock the cage, you know.  But why bother?  I love to see the Beast grovel and cry. It is just so pathetic. To mark my spot, I cough up a hairball.
  • 3:00 p.m.: I am awoken from a sound sleep by the echoes of shoes running through the house.  The small person must be home and I need to hide lest she see me and decide that she wants to pick me up. There aren’t a lot of places in this giant box so I choose directly under the dining table–less chance of the child reaching in and catching me.
  • 5:00 p.m.: It’s dinner time.  I have to endure another dose of this gruel!  In protest, I use the  litter box first in hopes of making the first level of the house smell as bad as it can.  What do I care?  I can’t smell a thing!
  • 5:15 p.m.:  I spot the small person and run.  Sadly, due to my age and arthritis, I am unable to outrun its chubby legs.  It grabs me by the tail and I scream in indignation and some pain.  I hear the Keeper tell the little person that “the cat’s tail is not for pulling.”  I hiss at the creature and remind myself that I will get even later tonight after “Mom” is sleeping.  I will sneak into the small person’s bed tonight and sit on its face. Nothing like a little cat hair in your mouth to make you choke!
  • 7:00 p.m.: It’s last call for the Beast. I sit by the door waiting for it to open so I can rush out.  I know that I have to be swift if I am going to escape.  Usually they notice me and kick me away from the door.  But not tonight! The “Keeper” opens the door and I slip out.  I am FREE! I run like my life depends on it and  hide under the porch so no one will be able to find me.
  • 8:00 p.m.: Where the hell are they?  The humans strolled around the yard for almost 3 minutes with their big lights looking for me and then gave up. Now their inside the house probably talking about me in past tense terms.    I am hungry and have no idea how to find my own food!  What’s an old feline to do?   A mouse runs by me.  Did I just hear it snicker?  I start to whine.
  • 8:15 p.m.: I crawl out from under the porch.   My feelings are extremely  hurt.   This is Senior Feline abuse!  Who the hell leaves their old house cat outside?  I find the door and scratch it.  Yes!  Long, thin scratches.  The paint instantly peals off of the door in sheets.  I have made my mark.  But no one comes to the door to let me in.
  • 9:00 p.m.: I am crying and scratching at the door.  Still, no one comes to let me in the house.  Are they going to let me die out here?
  • 11:00 p.m.: I have given up.  I decide that I will freeze to death.  Just as I have resigned myself that I am about to lose the remaining 8 of my lives, a light goes on.  The door opens and my keeper scoops me up in her arms.   I purr with relief that she has found me and brought me inside.
  • 11:01 p.m.: That’s enough love for her!   I look at her with pure hate, hiss and dig my front claws into the Keeper’s arm.  She screams. All is right with the world.  I climb up onto the leather couch, dig my claws into the soft hide.  I curl up and go to sleep.
Another successful day has come to an end.

The “Beast” the humans call “Maya.”

This blog post was inspired by the great “Mama Kat’s Losin It” workshop.  Please click on the link for other fantastic articles from fabulous writers including Mama Kat. 

Hyundai Santa Fe: My One True Love Is Inanimate.

Hyundai Santa Fe: My One True Love Is Inanimate.

I Love My Car

I Love My Car

Dear Betsy–

Before I knew you, I wanted you.  I’ve longed for you since I first saw Demi Moore drive off with your cousin in St. Elmos Fire.  Each day when I am in the car pool line, behind the Cadillac Escalades and the random Hummer or two, I am proud to be in my fire engine red Hyundai Santa Fe.  Those cars have nothing on you and, trust me, are not loved nearly as much as I love you, my sweet, wonderful dream of an automobile.

Knowing of your mere existence, incited emotions in me that I did not know I possessed (at least not at age 13.) I begged my parents when I was a mere teen, and then again in my twenties for permission to meet and spend my life with you.  My declarations of love and adoration were discarded as a passing fancy.  As if someday I would turn my back on you and secure a more mature acquisition.

You are red; the color of fire, speed and the sun.  On the inside you are soft and allow the sun to shine on those chilly Chicago days when I begin to lose hope of ever seeing sunlight again.  Did you know that, like a lover waiting for her soulmate, I purchased a red down parka and red cowboy boots well in advance of your arrival?  I knew that someday you would enter my life and we would be together until the salt started to dissolve your internal organs.

It took some cunning and conniving for us to be together.  I had to dispose of the competition.  It took me a few years but eventually the others just couldn’t keep up with the Chicago winters. Many complaints were lodged by those wanting to take you home. But you chose me.

Betsy!   As soon as we are together, you take pains to ensure my every comfort. Like ever so slightly toasting my buns when the days are frosty with your awesome butt warmer. Or by blowing cool air on me when it is hot outside. Your windows automatically open with a bush of a button.  You ensure that I have plenty of spots to place my drinks, my food, csmart phone, computer, tablet–well, you understand.  Your leather seats cushion my bottom after a long and arduous workout. And regardless of what we leave inside of you daily (apple juice, an old banana or cleats) you do your best to smell fresh and clean.   You take such pains to accommodate my every need.  You’ve always been like that.

Aesthetically, Betsy, you remind me of a Gaudi sculpture.  You are smooth, without harsh lines or edges.  You are whimsical and are not afraid to show your lighter side. You rarely show the random nicks and bruises received by traversing the City of Chicago.  Nor do you advertise when you have been hiking in the woods and come out covered by pine sap, bird poop and camping clutter.  You just remain the same fire engine red truck with whom I fell in love.

There is talk about replacing you for a newer, faster, shiner model these days.  I want to assure you that, until you are ready to quit me, I will never quit you.  So, please go on consuming massive quantities of gas and oil.  I know that, after all of these years, you’ve developed some expensive habits like getting poor milage in the city and on the highway.  It’s to be expected.  But I don’t blame you.  Keep shining on my beautiful girl.

Affectionately Yours,

Renee, aka Windy City Momma

 

 

Oh! The Splendor and Beauty of the 2003 Hyundai Santa Fe