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cats…more like dogs than we thought..more like us than we admit.

Finally, I woke up in something that passes for a good mood.

Usually, getting out of bed is my least favorite part of the day (though daytime at large is for the birds…I like the  nighttime).  Which is why I usually seek to prolong the full get-up as long as possible.  Most mornings find me the sole occupant of my (new) house, as the housemates are usually day-timing it in school and kitchen respectively.  So it’s easy to listen to music in bed in PJs for hours while alternately pondering emptily and masturbating…easily evading the judgments of morning-folk.

My mood has been frequently curdled by a cat (let’s call him Boris) that has on and off been mine for about a year now.  I adopted Boris away from the home/catfarm in which I currently reside (but then did not) to a home six blocks away.  At the beginning of this year, I moved and in February, I moved again….onto the couches of my Austin lurves, with the grand intention of moving to Portland.  Pastypale, depressed, sun-starved Portland.  Hahahaha.  It seems such a silly idea now, but then it was my dream and solution - I have a pattern of moving and liking to move.  It regenerates my spirit and kickstarts my personal evolution.  But.  Not to spoil the surprise, but I chose to stay in Austin.

Back to Boris.  Since I had no interest in plus-cat-couchsurfing or driving his whiny arse all the way across this fine country, I was prepared to give him up.  I essentially accepted he was no longer mine.  I experienced a few bursts of regret, but nothing I wasn’t prepared for and nothing I couldn’t/didn’t get over.

Boris returned to his former owners.  About a month later, I was routinely castigated for and phoned about Boris’ return to his/my former home.  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘Since I don’t have a home and I don’t particularly like critiquing the cat ownership skills of others, would you like me to sit down and talk to him?’

Things actually got far more impassioned than that.  Boris became the symbol of the total degradation of my lifestyle.  In that inbetweeny two months, I lived out of my car and tried to just understay my welcome on whichever I ended up on.  A friend/animal rescue enthusiast upset me so much everyone had to clear the room I was yelling/crying at her in.  I take routine offense to people who do or suggest that I do treat animals better than oneself.  So the suggestion that I accept responsibility for feeding/housing something when I could not do it myself filled my heart with an inky-black rage.

But.  I have a home now.  A home where Boris once lived.  Where he now refuses to live.  I have gone to my former home three times in the last two weeks to retrieve him.  A process complicated by my ostensible best friend’s presence there - we are not currently on anything but the most basic of speaking terms.

So I have been trying to lock the brat in, to reacclimate him, to make him accept his new and tragic fate.  And let me assure you, this cat talks more bullshit than Rush Limbaugh.  Listening to his constant whiny platitudes is enough to make a man mad.  His first stint on lockdown was five days.  His second stint was about 12 hours, as he began whining in the thick of when even I should be sleeping and took a shit in my closet.  We’re in the thrilling thick of the third act.  On his first night, it was back to him forbidding me to sleep.  I dreamed of pretending I found him in front of a fictional house where, goddamnit, my roommate is allergic to cats - and either giving him to a shelter or trying to get him online adopted.  I dreamed of him joining the shark circus.  Or even, in the delirium of ‘HOW AM I AWAKE AT 6 AM?!’ simply leaving town to not have to deal with it (running away…it’s a theme!).

But he let me sleep at last.  So, like someone who thinks this is not a basic civil right, I was grateful.  He even slept in my kneepit like he used to when I didn’t hate him.  My current housemates/catfarmers often refer to the felines as humans in catsuits.  Fair enough, but under these peculiar auspices, they are thus viable for grudge-holding and blind hatred.  But, like with many other human-suited humans, I’m trying to bury the hatchet in the ground and not in him.  Wish me luck!

Also, I understand this is a rather deeply disturbed blog post, let alone for an intro, but it is sort of evocative of my current state of despair and emotional out-of-sortsiness.