Dear Online Diary,
Saturday night made me realize I should not have children. I don’t even have the patience for Kitty Kitty, much less a noisy shit machine who constantly needs attention from my boobies.
Saturday, as a whole, was a good day. Goodwill, laundry, absolute seclusion from humans I normally interact with. It was, as they say, muy bueno. Just what the doctor ordered. Just the ticket. Just good. Saturday night was spent at home on the internet, randomly looking for side work and reading updates from friends on Facebook and Livejournal.
At a certain point, my need to be awake was completely satiated. I was ready for some light reading before heading off into a beautiful, blissful, much needed trip to slumber land. Nothing better than going to bed on Saturday night, knowing there is no alarm clock or work waiting for you in the morning.
I fell asleep relatively easily. This is a rarity for me. Without the help of Ambien, excessive amounts of booze, or heroin, I have never been a good sleeper.
But the blissful sleep was not to be…about an hour after falling asleep, I woke up to Kitty Kitty running like he was on fire across the wood floors. I don’t know what he was running from, but I can only assume it was a big fucking dog. Or a tiger. Or the boogeyman. I went back to sleep….until a big, black, furry asshole jumped squarely on my head. At this point, I was more worried it was not Kitty Kitty than anything else. Once I figured out that it was the cat, I was pissed. However, it was a grumpy “I just want to go back to sleep” kind of anger.
Begrudgingly, I flipped over and went back to sleep. This was interrupted AGAIN by incessant meowing, the sounds of the fury asshole running around from room to room, and at some point, knocking over shit in the living room. As much as I was trying my hardest to get back to sleep, it was not to be.
The final assault was performed in the form of a WWF body slam to my head…again. At this point, I threw off my covers, stood straight up, looked at the fury asshole and yelled, “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!!?!”
By this point it was 6 a.m. I’m pretty sure it was sleep deprivation…but for some reason, I stood there staring at the fury asshole waiting for an answer. I’m not a complete nut job-I didn’t expect english. I didn’t expect him to write down the actual symptomatology and diagnoses of his assholish condition.
But some indicator would be nice.
Some REASON for being psychotic all night long.
+Perhaps there was danger lurking? “What is it, Kitty Kitty? Is little Timmy stuck in the well?”
+Perhaps I was a bad owner? Maybe he really really hates his name. Which would definitely further my understanding as to why he only answers to Kitty Kitty. But his name isn’t Virgil, let’s not get dramatic. Besides, it’s the name he came with. I didn’t give him a new one. No..this can’t be it.
+Perhaps he smelled gas? This would be awesome, further indicating my cat can be used as a security system. Alas, I don’t have one gas appliance in the house. My monthly gas bills add up to state taxes and surcharges.
+Perhaps he’s beginning a Freudian Regressive Period? According to Freud, everyone reverts back to childlike behavior every once in awhile, then bounces forward into adulthood again. If I didn’t think Freud was a perverted cokehead-I might go for the psychological regression.
Even if it was none of these reasons, I would at least appreciated a head hung in shame or serve me some sort of revitalizing omelette breakfast.
Instead, the fury asshole started rubbing on me and purring like a candy kid at the height of a rave. I was perplexed and excessively grumpy. I got up and drank some coffee. I’ll admit, I was shaky and puky from the lack of sleep. I headed back to my room, intending to grab some pants and start my day.
As I walked by the spare bedroom, I noticed something on the carpet. Dark splatter all over it. What the fuck? I just vacuumed. But without my glasses, it was far too blurry to see. I went to get my glasses from the side of my bed, the asshole till rolling around on my bed meowing and purring.
I went back to the spare room. Green flakes all over the floor. ALL OVER. And in the corner-a ripped up, empty bag of catnip.
Kitty Kitty was HIGH! That was it! He ripped open and consumed an entire 3 ounce bag of that shit.
Now my entire perspective of the night had changed. Kitty Kitty is a drug addict. He consumed enough catnip to impress a cat version of Keith Richards. Now I’m not mad, I’m concerned. My wayward cat needed to dry out and withdraw. He was still an asshole-but he was an asshole with a pathological disease condition. Now I would have to stage an intervention and put him in rehab. And at least feel somewhat bad for him. Or maybe it was just one bad night and he would regret it all and never do it again?
Only time will tell. I was far too tired to stage an intervention. Dr. Drew would understand. We can’t stage an intervention when we are that tired. It just isn’t right.
By 10 a.m., Mini Keith was sleeping soundly on my bed. So soundly, he didn’t even wake up when I took a shower or got clothes out of my dresser. Some people may wonder if he was in a coma…he was not. I was sure to poke him every 20 minutes for the rest of the day..every time I was sure he was asleep-I was sure to poke him or pet him just enough to wake him up-then walk away.
Take that, you hungover bastard!
Tags: cat
