Freddy Krueger for a pet.

(May 21, 2007)

Although I don't really mind cats that are old and feeble and barely move, there are plenty of reasons to hate cats in their healthy prime -- which lasts for twenty years. If you die and no one finds you for a while, they will eat you; they are impossible to discipline; they love to shred furniture; they make me sneeze and itch; they're kind of sketchy, and I have reason to believe they're anti-semitic. They have knives for hands. It's like having a furry Freddy Krueger for a pet. While I don't understand anyone's motivation to own a cat, I do currently live with one -- West.

West likes to play. He's really into wrapping his body around my leg and then biting me. He climbs on the table. He likes to spray litter all over the bathroom. He can't stop, won't stop scratching, and he follows me around the house, darting out of corners and remaining constantly under foot. Fortunately, West and I are beginning to understand each other -- by which I mean that he will continue to torment me daily and there's nothing I can do about it.

There's really no escape. He even body slams the door to the bathroom and tries to climb in my lap while I pee. It's so adorable I've been inspired to come up with some nicknames for him, such as Wolverine, and The Fucking Cat. Traditional feline aversion techniques are no good because West likes water. Stephanie suggested putting some coins in a coffee can and shaking it when he does something annoying because he's supposed to hate the noise, but I think I'd hate the noise more -- especially since I'd be shaking the can every 43 seconds.

Yesterday, Hamilton told me about a cat her family had way back in the day. The cat was named Fago, after a villain in an Italian indie film rather than a delicious beverage. Fago liked to sit on top of a tall dresser across the room from Hamilton's parents' bed. Every night, at 4 a.m., Fago would launch himself across the room from the top of the dresser and land directly on Pete Hamilton's head. This went on for months, and nothing could make Fago stop his reign of terror. So, one night, Pete Hamilton pretended to sleep. He waited until 4 a.m., heard Fago prepare for the dismount, and met Fago mid-leap with a fist to the head. Pete Hamilton has slept soundly ever since. So, maybe cats can be disciplined after all.