Saturday, 12 May 2012

Carpet munching pussy

There's a long held belief, mostly, it has to be said, among cat lovers, that cats are intelligent. That they are infinitely superior to dogs in the old brain area. The general rule of opposable thumb is that cats manipulate their owners with subtle signals. These include yowling in one's face until the only thing left to do is fill that yawning maw of a mouth with cat food; rubbing up against you while you're just about to indulge in coitus; sleeping on your face and then suddenly leaping to attention a propos of nothing, simultaneously digging their claws in and launching themselves from your now scarred body in pursuit of something that appears to be invisible to the naked eye. And generally living the life of a spoiled prima donna. They're basically Mariah Carey.

All the while, they're plotting your demise while staring at you through hooded sleepy cat eyes. Or at the very least they're in control. They're not like dogs, who just run at you like you're made of chocolate. They don't pine when you're away. They don't even notice when you're away. They basically get you to treat them like the prince of cats, with just a flick of their disdainful whiskers. They're elegant and agile; tiny panthers living among us, allowing us to marvel at their supple and strong bodies and their delicate and refined ways.

All cats are like this.

All, that is, except Fatman. He's a bellend. Seriously. He's an idiot. If he had a comparable human IQ it would be about 5 points below the average Republican. He's just plain dumb. I have to wipe his ass for him sometimes. Uhuh. That's a real thing I have to do. I have tried to blame it on the fact that he had a traumatic and abusive kittenhood - and he did - but he's been living in safety and comfort for five years now and he still doesn't understand the difference between my friends (who he has met a hundred times) and a gang of crazed psychopathic cat murderers.

He walks into walls, falls off things - and doesn't land on his feet. He eats rubber bands and plastic bags. He pulls bits of carpet out and sits there chewing them like a cow chewing the cud. I have seen him methodically chew a piece of the rug, and just as I got to him to yoink it out of his flapping jaws, swallow it with a satisfied gulp. He eats flowers, leaves and plastic but won't eat freshly cooked chicken. He has been known to miss his litter tray altogether. Not because he doesn't know where it is but because he wedged his fat ass over the side of it and just... missed.

He chases his tail. Like a young puppy. He seems to think it's somehow an entity distinct and apart from him. He makes disconcerting slurping noises when he cleans his bits and then looks up all surprised. He growls at birds through the window. His favourite place to sit is on top of the coffee machine.

When he's really, fully, specially happy (usually when he's sitting on me somehow some way - he even wedges himself on my lap when I'm on the loo) he dribbles. It's like he's so zoned out he forgets to swallow and just drools all over me. Or all over my laptop/work/clothes/whatever is in his immediate vicinity. I have to tap his tongue to remind him to swallow. I mean, that's mental.
It's taken me a long time to admit it, but my cat is just a dumbass.

I always thought I'd end up with a sort of intellectual cat. The kind that flicks through my extensive library while I'm at work, contemplating the mysteries of Shakespeare. I got a lardy, dribbling, farting fluffball who missed all the kitten classes in how to be a normal cat.

I bloody love him though.

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