Don’t Cry For Me, I’m Already A Cat Lady
by Courtney
My quixotic and unlikely crush on famous webmaster Lowtax has suffered a knockout blow. That’s right, guys: he finally married his fiancée. Who is not me.
Oh noes!
The only comfort I can find now is in embracing my lonely, bitter future as a crazy old lady with a haunted house full of cats and booby traps and instant prizes, so, in the spirit of bowing to the inevitable, today’s update is all about cats.
Today I feel like this cat.
I like cats a lot, and when I say a lot, I mean a whole lot. Cats are sleek and cuddly and warm and soft. Cats can peek at things while looking directly at them. When cats jump at things and miss, it makes me laugh, but only if the cat is not hurt. Cats sit with their backs to you to pointedly ignore you, but you can tell they’re listening anyway because their ears go back, thus, they are not masters of deceit.
The other day, this cat made me laugh so hard I was nearly sick.
I have two cats. Felice is black, impeccably groomed, and filled with an unending hatred of all creatures under God’s shiny sun that are not Felice. The only way to take the edge off her constant, icy fury is to offer her gourmet tuna. Faith is stripy in different shades of brown. One time when she was a kitten, a leaf got in her eye and stayed there for a while, and now I suspect her depth perception isn’t that great because a lot of the time she’s pretty clumsy and sometimes misses things she jumps onto. She thinks she’s a lot bigger and heavier than she really is. When she walks she walks like the huge, stocky tigers on the Lion Man. My cats stalk the stock in the paddocks beside our house. Sometimes the stock get scared. One time when Faith was stalking some calves the cows got angry and chased her away. Cows are really freakin big in comparison to cats.
This cat looks a lot like Felice. Felice would probably sit in a box like this and enjoy it very much. She would also probably wear this cat’s expression of world-weary malice.
“You revolting primates cannot begin to imagine how wicked awesome it is in this box. Save your primitive hootings for the next time you look in a mirror, hideous swamp foetus.”
They are full of delicious milk.
This cat suggests you go fuck yourself.
One thing that scares Leigh when she comes to my fortified manor house is the private language I use to communicate with my cats and, to a lesser extent, my dogs. It’s a secret way of talking that communicates both how strongly I feel about the cuteness of cats, and how funny I think it is when they stare at me with withering contempt. It’s also completely impenetrable to the uninitiated. And “fucking horrifying”. Quote unquote.
The best thing about this picture is how detachedly fascinated the kitten is by the baby’s pain. They second best thing is that someone is just standing there photographing this baby while it’s bawling away, frightened and covered in paint.
Example. I’m sitting on the kitchen floor, poking Faith in the tummy with pens while tugging on her tail, just to mix things up a little, and squealing (against all empirical evidence) “Kitty YIKE! Himone YIKE! Yike poky dat self did done! Yike! Naughty yike!”
Kitty yike. And may I say, on behalf of the human race, awwwwwww.
Loosely translated, this means, “Faith is enjoying this bizarre ritual. She likes it. She likes the fact that I am stabbing her with a pen. She is a naughty cat, and apparently still enjoys the whole stabbing/tail yanking thing.”
This image rules, but what is www.boners.com? And why is it hosting pictures of cats? A mystery Sherlock Courtney intends never to solve.
Other things my cats like: being put in plastic shopping bags and swung around; being put in backpacks and carried around; sitting in high places and staring down at us with glittering, malevolent eyes; having nice cuddles; sheepskin; curling into boxes or other tiny spaces that are only just big enough for a cat.
I rest my case.
We can learn a lot from cats. For one thing, cats don’t give a fuck whether or not you like them, or even respect them, because cats are so far above people that our opinions are frankly irrelevant to them. A cat doesn’t care if it wakes you up every five minutes all night, it just wants to sleep on every square centimetre of your bed.
Tutten yike, him are a jump-up surpwiser tutten! Him are! Him jump up, him say ‘Self YIKE naughty sit-in box, dat did dive himone a fwight!’.
A cat doesn’t care how meltingly adorable you think it is when it washes its ears with its paws, and it doesn’t care how weird and disgusting you think it is when it continues its bath. Cats are always beautifully groomed and poised. Their whole lives consist of spiffing up and hanging out, with occasional episodes of rocking out and kicking ass.
Milk?
This one time I was hanging out on Quizilla, misspending my youth, and I took this quiz called ‘How Much Of A Furry Are You?’. I hate their grammar almost as much as I hate their filthy, perverted lifestyle. Anyway, the quiz was insane, with answers divided into ‘I don’t know what furries are’, ‘clueless yet morbidly aroused’ and ‘drooling sex-pest’. This posed many a problem for me in answering the questions, as the quizmaster didn’t seem to have taken into account the possibility that people might actually be made physically ill at the thought of fucking Simba. I mean, how was I supposed to respond to the question ‘Do you know what yiffing is?’ when the only available answers were ‘No’, ‘I think so?’ and . . . an enthusiastic affirmative. I can’t remember the exact wording right now, and every time I try to approximate it in writing I can’t help imagining a guy in a blue fursuit saying it aloud in a flat voice, winking at me.
