Buddy: Satanic Bastard Cat

I’m not usually a superstitious person. Neurotic and obsessive about some things, sure, but superstitious? Not so much. My habit of triple checking the stove and other fire-causing items in the home before I leave or go to sleep isn’t superstition. It’s based on the fact that most fires start when you’re away or sleeping. I just want to make sure I’m not increasing my odds. Okay? Totally logical. Perhaps I’m weird in that I refuse to write an ending for my novels before I write them, but that’s also not superstition. It’s based in fact. You see, every time I’ve outlined something and wrote the ending before I started writing the first draft, I never finish that story…or at least not to my satisfaction. That’s solid evidence that writing the ending first is a bad idea for me.

With April having a Friday the 13th (tomorrow) I’ve been pondering superstitions and the luck (or lack of it) I’ve had recently, and I’ve found a common thread. Earlier this year (October-ish) we found this tiny black kitten outside our house. Wait, you’ve gotta see how cute he was:

He’s helpless, the kids said. Look how cute he is, they cooed. So we let him in. A few people said later that they’d never take a black cat. In fact, when I called the Humane Society (Shh, don’t tell the kids I even contemplated such a thing) they told me that he’d probably be put down because people rarely take a black cat. Why? Superstition. For fucksakes, I said. That’s stupid.

Or is it?

It wasn’t until that cat entered this house that I found things like this:

That is a hairball folks. On my wall, way up at the ceiling. How does that shit happen? I don’t know, but it did. Seven feet up the wall, that cat hacked up that bad boy. Not bad luck? Well, not long after that the precious little bundle of joy was leaving me steaming brown coils of nasty all over the house. It wasn’t until January that I realized the crawlspace was his personal litter heaven. I filled a grocery bag – A GROCERY BAG – with pooh from that little black bastard.

But I calmed down, and thought, well maybe he doesn’t like Dill (my very well behaved older cat) going where he does his business. So I got another litter box. Well folks, if I don’t scoop his nasties out as soon as he makes them, then he shits on my floor. So yeah, litter cleaning daily.

But I got over that. Then the incident with the vacuum occurred. I was minding my business, vacuuming up the litter he insists on kicking out of the COVERED litter box every time he uses it, and I sucked up a toy that was in the way. Hey, if it’s on the floor, it goes to the beast. Well, the toy was too big for the vacuum to handle and it had a bit of a stroke. (Shhh…don’t tell Kurt. It’s a new vacuum…purchased after I wrecked the two we had.) So I tried to get the toy out. I had to tip it upside down and shake it to do so. After it dropped, I saw a shadow run at my legs. I stepped back, turned, and looked down, trying to avoid stepping on whatever it was.

Well it was that black bastard cat. And I fell over him and completely messed up my back. Yes, it’s still messed up because I’m old now and I just don’t heal the way I used to.

Bad luck? Perhaps.

But I thought he was so cute and lovable, he was worth it. Witness the demon at work:

Yeah, I dare you to touch the box. He lies in wait for us like this all the time, under beds, in cupboards, behind doors. The first fool that walks by gets scratched to shit.

In addition to these little mishaps, Buddy (that’s the bastard’s name) gave Dill mites, brought the damn cat fleas back into the house (now we have dog and cat fleas, wtf?), and he has scratched all the fucking walls to shit. Why? He chases shadows. If they’re on the wall, he runs up the wall.

Oh yeah, and I go through 16 rolls of toilet paper a week. How is that possible? The little bastard shreds them to bits. No matter how high I put them, he manages to get at least half an econo pack each week. Not only is it annoying, but I have to clean it up.

Also he bullies Bear terribly. As if the dog isn’t neurotic enough, now he’s got demon cat making him even worse. He’s chewed the hair right off his ass because of that cat. But how do I conveniently lose him when he causes this kind of happy?

Bad luck? I think so. Can’t you see how he’s mocking me?

Now, I just have to figure out how to put that bastard’s satanic power to good use.

8 thoughts on “Buddy: Satanic Bastard Cat”

I kept thinking you were overreacting until I got to the end. What the hell did you do to deserve this penance?Hope he settles down soon. It took Iko two years and many leather couches later.

I know! I keep thinking that there isn't a single thing I've done in this life-or even a combination of things-that deserves this cat. I didn't mention the furniture. Forgot all about it. Let's see: Ripped loveseat, whittled chairs, pissy chair in the entry that will not come clean…and then the clothes that he's peed or pooped on. Two years? Oy.

I don't like the way he's staring at me! The eyes…they're still on the screen…staring at me. Take that picture off. At once. It's some kind of satanic virus. Time to brush my screen with garlic.

I feel your pain, Mike. I really do.

Oh. My. God. This is the reason I'm a dog person. And I agree with Mike. That picture of his eye in the box is stuck with me, and not in a cute way. You have my full compassion.