Karma is a Cat Named Elvis

April 28, 2014


The picture you see above is of heathen number 4, Elvis.

My obsessive readers know this is Partner’s favorite cat nestled in its favorite spot beside my face, my hand cupped over its head.

Partner dotes on this beast like an ugly girl dating the star quarterback. I provide no affection to this animal other than the frequent and dismissive, “Shut up,” when it ‘speaks’ to me.  Stockholm syndrome seems to be the only explanation as to why it likes me so much.

The unwanted attention I receive from this cat is not a complete burden as it provides me an opportunity to instill envy in Partner. We all know making your loved one jealous is fun. Whenever Elvis gets touchy-feely, I snap a picture and text it to Partner, the unspoken message of these pictures being, “You must be doing something wrong because I treat this creature like a Mississippian treats a gay and yet he loves me more than he loves you.”

After capturing the above image, I sat up in bed and prepared the instigating text to Partner. The glow from my iPhone was the only source of light as I cropped the image.  However, my mischief was disrupted by the following sound: thunk splash. I suddenly felt wetness against my leg, arm, and chest.

I knew what had happened before shining my iPhone’s light in the direction of the nightstand from where this sound came. Elvis was stirred awake by either the flash of the phone’s camera or my movement, and what’s the first thing this asshole does upon waking?  Push my full glass of water off the nightstand.

When I conveyed this to Partner the next morning (leaving out my intentions to make him jealous with the picture, of course), he provided the following advise, “Maybe you should keep water in a closed bottle so it wouldn’t spill when he pushes it over.”

You read that correctly.  I (the partial owner of said habitat) must change MY habits and behaviors to accommodate this uncivilized and disobedient creature.

When did we start placating the domesticated creature?  Since I have to clean up after them (paw prints festering with asshole bacteria, fur-tumbleweeds the size of newborn kittens, toys lost under furniture, food droppings from messy eaters, loose hair clinging to the walls, disposed furniture from scratch and chew marks, etc.), I should at least be granted the luxury of leaving an unfolded basket of laundry in the guest bedroom until I feel like it without one of the heathens nesting in it and shedding two layers of its winter coat on my clean clothes.

This is why I must stay heavily medicated.

These creatures make Partner so happy, though. Damn it.  And I’ve said it before (but have to remind myself of this almost every day), at the end of the day, I still love Partner more than I hate these goddamn cats.

Little assholes.