Meow To Your Mother: I'm Prepared To Die

Big cats. Little cats. Fluffy cats. Bald cats. Cats with whiskers like curb-feelers and cats devoid of any facial hair. Cats that mew and cats that chatter. Purring car engine idling on a Sunday afternoon cats and cats whose sides rise and fall as they nap in the afternoon sun. Cats with pink padded paws that alternately push and knead on the surface of your belly.

I hate all cats.

-unlike cat lovers, who don't mind showing their cat love to the world. Puffy cats on sweatshirts. Librarian cats on canvas totes. Santa cats on holiday cards. Metal cat charms dangling and clinking from a pudgy wrist. Cat lovers wear staticky fur on the butts of their velour pants with no shame. Bintsy has a beautiful coat!

Cat tongues are fingernail-sized emery boards- scratch, scratch, scratching their little cat anuses then coming to rough up the exposed skin above your sensible shoes. Isn't he such an affectionate kitty?

Cats' skin is doughy like my second grade teacher who smelled of powder and wore her glasses dangling by a gold chain over her matronly bosom. Take your pointer finger and poke at a cat's side. It will just keep going and going, merely making an indentation in a vast plane of furry flab. This is disturbing, to say the least.

Cat tails are- and you know this to be true, so just admit it- a creepy entity unto themselves. They move independently of the actual cat- flicking this way and that. Curling up and uncurling with a thwack on the wooden floor. Nothing should move that much without a purpose. Nothing. It would be like if your ear were in constant motion. Folding and unfolding itself. Waving about like it's waiting nervously for its long-lost friend to exit the plane and head down the walkway.

Cats don't need you. They don't even love you. Take away their food and see what happens. They'll leave, that's what. They'll leave and go to someone else with food. Is that the kind of relationship you want? Is it? I didn't think so.

What's up with that spraying nonsense? I mean, I know a cat's been here because its vile hair tufts are still swirling on the ground and it smells like my grandma's drawer of old undies with the shot elastic waistbands. I don't need to smell cat piss dripping from my screen door to know a cat came by. But that's what they do. They mark places. A calling card shot straight from their asses, if you will.

Cats are drug addicts and their owners are pushers and pimps. If my mom would have come home and rolled me up some joints as an after-school snack, I'm sure many of you would have concerns about that. Cats, however, are frequently doped up on cat nip and left to pounce at imaginary mice and teeter their way around the apartment. What deep secrets do you have to drug about, kitty?


I would punch them right in their kitty faces if they weren't so damned cute. And if I wasn't afraid I'd get the shit scratched out of me.

Cat thoughts gone.
Cat thoughts out.
Peace out, kitty thoughts.
Swing you by the tail.
Go to jail.
Bars made of kitten arms
(they bend but they don't break!)
Get outta here, stinkerpuss.

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My message to cat-loving friends who will momentarily defriend me on facebook and start sending me all things kitty: This was a bit of free-writing I did in class today with a few kids who selected the topic "cats."  We had 30 min. to write. Don't shoot my monkey mind. It just...came out this way. I? love? cats?