Bowling for pussy

Just because I'm allergic to them and they give me the equivalent of a respiratory infection if I nuzzle too long doesn't mean I am not completely smitten with cats. It's how I was raised, The Way of the Cat Worship, and a little breath-stopping allergy is no match for ingrained, deep-seated kitty love. You have to remember that my parents had cats already when I was born, and when my dad brought my mom and me home from the hospital the first time, he had to remind her, in all seriousness, to greet her other human children before she said hello to the cats. You see where I had no other choice but to be the way I am?

So imagine the ecstatic wheezing that has erupted in my bosom as I have flung myself into the midst of an even dozen felines. Every morning, I pop my barely adequate Clarinex (yes, going to see the doc soon and get some Singulair, I promise!) and then immerse myself in fluffy evil bliss when I give myself over to the cat horde.

My bedroom is supposed to be a cat-free zone, and it mostly is, but at least once a day, Wobbles breaches my security and scoots in with silvery stealth. When I turn around to fetch him, he wanders around the room with his best "I'm so innocent, not doing anything wrong, aren't I cute?" face and sniffs everything like it's new, like he didn't sneak in here and sniff the same things yesterday. Do I yell and squawk? Why, of course I do. I come in here and rage and roar and swoop down on poor frozen-ass Wobbles and scream "GET OUT OF MY ROOM, HELLSPAWN!" and then I throw him out and go kick the dogs to show him what could happen to him. Can't give those cat bastards an inch, you know. They know me as Hard-Ass Aunt Katy, The Mean One.

Ummmmmm....okay, I know that will cause riotous laughter amongst those who live with me, or even know me a little bit. Let's face it - I'm a soft touch. A sucker. A patsy. Those cats are planning to pin a murder on me, I know it, and my silly ass will go to jail thinking, "Well, I wouldn't want any of the little kitty kitties in trouble!" And then the cats will send me a pillow filled with their fur so I will never breathe right in prison, either.

When Wobbles sneaks in here, my reaction is more like "Oh, Wobbles, you silly nosy boy, you know you shouldn't be in here!" in a not tough voice. And then he jumps on my forbidden bed and rolls around, and buys himself an extra five minutes in here while I reel from the cuteness.

Suckaaaah!

The animals have clearly discussed me and devised strategies to break me down based on my weaknesses, of which I have many where cats are concerned. Even tiny, shy little Nala perks up when I come around because she knows I will pet her ever so gently and then give her cheese. The whiskered bandits also know I'm the lady who brings 'em the giant tubs of catnip. Why aren't fucked-up humans half as cute as fucked-up cats? I do love my little stoner kitties.

I love them all, and make it a point to spend an unseemly amount of time each day making over any cat who appears in my line of sight. There is one cat, however, who has really snagged my heart, mind, and everlasting soul, and I have become her willing minion. Smidge, Smidge, evil cow cat of doom Smidge, all she need do is glance my way and I'm at her side immediately, bowing, scraping, and inquiring, "Yes, Mama Smidge, what bidding may I be blessed to do for you today, oh evil one?"

So far, she has not requested anything especially heinous from me, as her daughters Rowdy and Buttercup usually carry out collections, beatings, and hits for her. My servitude mostly consists of hours of petting as she swirls around me, and sneaking her bites of my food so the other cats don't see and demand the same. I adore this cat. When such a time comes that I am cured of my allergies, I fully intend to let Smidge sleep in my room and bite me in the face while I sleep.

I have been obsessed with Smidge for a long time now. My sickness finally culminated in one of the most vivid, strange dreams I've ever had.

In my dream, Jess was making informational pamphlets about each of her twelve cats. The one I picked up, of course, was the one about my cow kitty of doom. The cover had a picture of Smidge's face, with the title: Think you know something about me? I'm Smidge.

Inside, each page featured a fact about Smidge and a picture or a drawing of her. There was one page...god help me, I don't know what's wrong with my brain, but when I awoke, the image of that page was so vivid and immediate in my mind that I had to whip out the Photoshop and recreate it.

This, in all truth, is pretty much exactly what I saw in my dream:




Do you think I should put up a PayPal donation button to pay for the extensive therapy I obviously need? Or at least to pay for a few frames of cat bowling?