As I slid down the stairs, plowing into every step with the small of my back, only one thought flowed through my head. My cats had finally found a way to kill me.
A little background, I own three cats. For anyone who has never seen a cat before, they constantly endanger owners' lives. I know my cats will one day kill me, but I always assumed they'd lacerate my duodenum or perform some sort of bazooka-related fatality (Otis wins), I definitely didn't foresee it happening like this.
Only recently did Otis decide to take out a contract on my life. One of his toys is a Beanie Baby frog that we call Froggy. He loves carrying that thing around the apartment and moaning with it. He also, apparently, likes to use it as an untimely instrument of death. He strategically placed it on the stairs—the very stairs I constantly walk down in order to move from floor to floor.
|This is the tramp stamp Otis left on me.|
I believe it's Japanese Kanji for "My Bitch."
When I walked downstairs in the pitch dark, I didn't expect Froggy to be underfoot. Froggy was underfoot. I stepped on him and balance immediately left. First my back smashed into a rogue stair, and I then slid down several steps. When I came to a rest, my back was scratched and throbbing, but luckily I did not bash my head open and suffer some life-threatening hemorrhage. You hear that, Otis, I did not bash my head open nor suffer some life-threatening hemorrhage!
I know he's one Froggy-slip away from taking me out for good. I've known this for a long time. Even long before meeting Otis, I knew cats had the potential for evil.
Growing up, I always feared cats, because they always seemed so smart. It's only in hindsight that I realize they were just smart in comparison to my dog who couldn't do any tricks. However, with my little man, Sprocket, I realized that conclusion might not hold true. This cat who has somehow gotten stuck in the vents of my TV not once, not twice, but thrice.
While Otis failed this time, I know he'll try again, and he'll probably succeed. The really scary thing is, Otis is our cat of medium intelligence. He's no Sprocket, but he's also no Rio. She better knows how to play with toys and commit wanton acts of violence. You should see her with pipe cleaners. If they were my jugular, I'd be dead several times over.
Ironically, Rio is the only one who hasn't directly tried ending me. However, she takes great pleasure in pooping on all sorts of things. So she might take me out by Toxoplasmosiodizing up the place, but as of yet nothing has occurred.
|Little does Sprocket realize,|
I don't keep vital organs in
I could solve this cat/murder problem by realizing that a cat is a cat, and I'm a human capable of rational thought. I could also realize that I control their access to kibble, and kibble is the ultimate trump card when it comes to cats. However, they also realize that I'm a huge hunk of meat, and were they to kill me, they'd have 165 pounds of finely toned flesh to feast upon for the next year. Sure, they don't realize that my meat will spoil, or my girlfriend will chide them for their pseudo-cannibalism, but that won't deter them—they'll just focus on the pure volume of me.
With Otis making his first attack, I know my life is on the line. I should be vigilant. I should be protective. I should never be alone in the same room as my four-legged bearers of pain and agony. But I just can't do it. They're far too cute and annoying to be ignored. So I'll continue to love and play with them.
When they knead the blanket covering me, they're not finding internal organs, they're loving. When they mash their face into mine, it's kitty kisses. When they reach into my chest cavity, pull out my still-beating heart, and stare at it before eviscerating it into itty bitty kitty pieces with no semblance of being a vital internal organ, I know they're just saying hearts mean love, and they love me. Or they're referencing “Temple of Doom.” Either way, adorable!