Am I the Next Eleanor Abernathy?

Eleanor Abernathy, better known as the Crazy Cat Lady, is a mentally-ill woman who always surrounds herself with a large number of cats. She usually screams gibberish and/or throws her cats at passersby. – Simpsons Wiki

I think I’m approaching my limit for feline adoration.

Look, I love cats.  I’m pretty sure every fifth post on here is about them.  I also love dogs, and cows and baby seals and unicorns.  Animals are wonderful and I’m delighted when it’s socially acceptable to domesticate them.  Even more so when we breed miniature versions of them.

The celebrity teacup pig trend was a beautiful thing.

I am currently the proud owner of two cats.  I say currently because it’s only a matter of time before I collect more. I promised Dave I would stop bringing them home but honestly, the first time I see an all-white fluffball wandering the streets without a collar, I’ll be three cats deep in a two person apartment.

I believe that’s called an infestation.

But for now, just two. One is dressed in a permanent tuxedo and the other is always sporting white tube socks.  They’re both fluffy and quirky and adorably overweight.  And lately they’ve been really pissing me off.

I don’t know if this is a temporary thing or not.  I’d like to think that my love for them is eternal and that my frustration is fleeting because it gives me hope that someday I can still make a decent mother.  The idea that I can just wake up one day and decide I’ve had enough of cleaning up after helpless, chronically needy creatures doesn’t exactly bode well for my motherly aspirations.

The good thing about kids is that at least they grow up to contribute.  I know this because my father made good use of me as soon as I could walk.  If I could hold a crayon and I could wobble about the living room, I was well equipped enough to fetch him a Pepsi.  And you know what? That used to really get on my nerves.  But now that I’m grown and working and generally tired and not smitten with the monotony of everyday life, I think I could really get into having a fleet of little servants.  And since it seems manufacturing humans from the fruit of your loins is the only socially acceptable way to get a few manservants these days, I’m probably going to  hop on that wagon sooner or later.

I’m tired.  And sometimes I don’t want to get my own Pepsis. That’s what I’ll tell my children when I regale them with the tale of their births.

But neither of my cats can get me a Pepsi.  And seeing as how neither of them has realized that the purpose of cat litter is to cover up their foulness and not for recess time, it’s unlikely we’re going to be able to progress to human capabilities any time soon.  In fact, my cats contribute absolutely nothing to my life.  I’ve asked H0bbes (the one with the socks) repeatedly to get a job but he never responds.

Adolescents, amirite?

I guess that’s not entirely fair. There are plenty of studies that show pets lower your blood pressure and increase your life expectancy and quality of life.  But then again, I’m pretty certain those numbers are in counterbalance to how often said pets throw up all over your belongings, hide hairballs in pockets and rarely-utilized compartments, and lie directly on whatever you’re going to wear in five minutes, thus rendering your outfit plan null and void.

I kid you not, last week Dave was relaxing on the couch after work and found a lone, semi-dry cat turd wrapped in the blanket on the couch.  But it had a little bit of litter on it.  Which suggests that it was once in the litter box, was dragged out by one of them, and carefully placed in the blanket for our discovery later in the day. I’m not even sure how that’s possible without opposable thumbs or a highly developed cerebrum.

Surprise turds in blankets tend to raise my blood pressure, not lower it.  I don’t see that in the studies.

I’m also incredibly allergic to them both and convince myself that their cuteness and overwhelming need for me should take priority over my itchy throat, watery eyes, and constant sneezing. So that probably undoes the whole ‘increase my life expectancy bit’.

The only real, semi-tangible plus my cats bring to my life is the inspiration to nap.  Since they don’t have jobs, don’t bother to clean themselves, and just yak up wherever they’d like, they don’t have much need for mobility.   When I go to work in the morning, Lola (in the tux) is always asleep on the corner of my bed.   And when I come home from work, she’s in the same exact place.  Don’t tell me she gets up and moves around and just lies back down before I come home because it’s not true.

And when I come home and I see how perfectly curled up they are and how their chin rests ever so gently on their paws and how the sun is coming through the window and keeping them warm and cuddly, I, too, am inspired to take an epic nap.  It doesn’t matter how paralyzing my to do list is or how full of anxiety I am that I’ll never amount to anything in life; when I see a comfortable, perfectly positioned cat in the middle of a deep, sunny sleep, I curl up beside them and pass out.

Technically, inspiring me to also be a non contributor is not a mark on the pro side of this argument.  But it’s all they’ve got going for them so I’m going to let it slide.

After all, they’re just so stinkin’ cute.  And fluffy.  And warm. And those permanent socks… 

Oh for the love of Hilary Duff on a stick, just throw another cat on the pile and call me Eleanor.

I’m weak. So weak. ♣

Tags: cats, Humor, life, musings, postaweek, postaweek2012