The pet debate on adding a little fur baby edition to my roof has been an ongoing scrimmage for a few years now.
Should I or shouldn’t I?
Shouldn’t I or should I?
Well, in the midst of summertime madness and most likely too much sunshine oozing into my brain cells, I’d decided that I definitely should take a jump into the kennel and become a pet mama….which only meant that naturally I’d live to regret that decision.
How I’m convinced the heat was definitely getting to my head is simply for the fact that although always being raised as a dog person, I sided with the option to adopt a cat instead.
Here’s my deal with cats. From the moment I was about eight and my childhood friend’s cat leaped out at my face and hissed at everyone when he wasn’t in the mood I’d made the wiser choice at the time that cats and I were not going to be friends. Church from Pet Semetary didn’t help sway that either.
For the rest of my school years I grew up thinking cats were crazy, rude, moody, didn’t give a fuck about your countertops and were the Devil’s relatives.
So I made my way down to the adoption agency where I got to sit in a meet/greet room and play with various cats. The first was a boy and utterly insane, lashing out to bite me every so often in which I was assured that this was normal behavior for kittens who are especially new to people and that he would eventually warm up to me.
Starting to feel like maybe this wasn’t one of my better decisions, I was encouraged to browse around more at other kittens and pick out my own. It was then I found a little brown and tan kitten, a girl about seven weeks old. She was tiny, apparently kept her area neat,
minded her damn business stayed to herself, and was quiet. She was basically me if I don’t really know someone but sober and I fell in love. Seemingly she felt the same way, immediately snuggling in my lap and trying to figure out her toys in peace.
So with slight paperwork, I’d officially become a crazy cat bitch.
I’d decided to opt for the sleepover plan, where you keep a pet for a maximum of a week to decide if you want to keep or bring them back. Which in some badass cases, I feel should work for children as well.
With my temporary adopted child, whom I’d decided on the name of Willow (from Buffy–duh), and kennel in tow, we started on the long road home. While Willow was quiet as a mouse at the shelter, once inside the kennel that was not the case. Girlfriend was having NONE of it. In an attempt to comfort her I decided to turn on the radio where some random song was playing. Still not having it. Another song. Still not here for it. It wasn’t until randomly stumbling upon I kid you not Beyonce‘s Partition that Willow suddenly got quiet as a church mouse. Wanting to keep it that way, we Spotified the hell out of Beyonce until we silently made it to our destination.
Where I went South of the cat border is when once inside, I opened the kennel to basically free reign of the house where my cat then made a Lindsay Lohan crazed dash to underneath the couch like Whiskas was on clearance.
I tried everything. Coaxing her she was safe, offering her toys, setting out food, singing Beyonce’–NOTHING worked. After about five hours of attempts, I settled on taking friends’ and my best friend Google’s advice and left my cat alone.
What if this girl never comes from under my couch?
What if she goes postal and attacks me?
What’s the number to that guy from My Cat From Hell?
Where is this cat even from what if she steals my wallet?
Or my James Franco DVDs?
The next morning along with my wallet and DVDs still in place, so were my kitten’s litter box and food, completely untouched. After making sure she was still alive, I was back to square one on trying to get her from under the couch. Picking up the phone and consulting with Petsmart after being laughed at and telling them I had a Beyonce’ stan under my furniture I was advised to come in and get some catnip. Either hearing my voice more or something about catnip suddenly Miss Willow EMERGED.
It wasn’t until after she ate she finally let me pet her for a few seconds and then proceeded to claw at my carpet.
Note to self: This is normal behavior.
Then proceeded to run around.
Then proceeded to jump at my blinds.
After then knocking down my cat proofed blocks, hiding behind the refrigerator, going H.A.M at a table and taking shit on the carpet after getting in and walking out of litter box only to just stare at me to do something about it was the moment things went from normal to madam you have to go this friendship isn’t really working out you’re a mess.
It was only 24 hours and already too much for my life. I failed making the cut of being a cat lady or basically handling the stress of being anyone’s pet mom. If one day is already a mess it was surely only a matter of time before my child is doing somersaults on my makeup counter and inviting her friends over to tear up shit.
Jamming Bey all the way, we made our return back to the agency and ended up meeting a nice older woman who seemed a lot more patient than me and was interested in taking her home. She eventually did and hopefully lived happily ever after. At least as long as she jammed some Beyonce’.