So... I'm a cat owner now Part one

Sarcastic Monologue sspoken word, humor, American Stand-up Comedian, Small club audience laughing

It started innocently enough. I was on YouTube at 2 AM – as one does – and the algorithm... oh, the algorithm knew exactly what it was doing. One video of a kitten falling asleep in a teacup. That's all it took. Suddenly I'm twelve videos deep, watching a kitten try to fight its own reflection, and I'm crying. CRYING. Over a cat that doesn't even know I exist.

Three days later, I'm at the animal shelter. I had a plan, people. A PLAN. One kitten. One adorable, manageable kitten. I walk in, and there's this woman working there – let's call her "The Clozer." I point to this little orange tabby and say, "That one. I'll take that one."

And she looks at me with these knowing eyes and goes, "Oh, honey... you're gonna want two."

"Two?"

"Two kittens are actually easier"

Easier. EASIER. You know what else is easier? Two tornados instead of one! Two toddlers on espresso! Two gremlins after midnight!

But she's got this whole pitch ready. "They'll entertain each other! They'll tire each other out! They'll keep each other company!" And I'm standing there, thinking I'm about to make a responsible, informed decision, when she puts a second kitten in my arms – a little gray one with huge eyes – I folded like a lawn chair.

"I'll take them both."

The Clozer smiles. She KNOWS. She's done this before. She's ruined lives professionally.

So now I'm driving home with these two fuzzballs, and they're in their carrier making the tiniest, most pathetic sounds you've ever heard. I'm thinking, "This is gonna be great. They're so small! So sweet! Look how they fit in the palm of my hand!"

What I didn't realize is that I had just adopted two Tasmanian devils in cat costumes. Two miniature engines of chaos that run on pure, uncut anarchy.

Here's what nobody tells you about kittens: They operate on a schedule. A very specific schedule. Seven times a day – SEVEN TIMES – these little monsters go on what I can only describe as "Destruction Missions." Thirty minutes each. Like clockwork.

It's like they have a union contract. "Article 3, Section 7: All kittens must wreak havoc in 30-minute intervals, with mandatory nap breaks to recharge their tiny, terrible bodies."

And the naps! Oh, the NAPS are adorable! They curl up together in a little yin-yang formation, and you think, "Aww, look at my sweet angels." You take forty pictures. You send them to everyone you know. You post them online with hashtags like hashtag cat person and hashtag Cat Mom.

Then they wake up. And it's ON.

Before I got these cats, I did what any responsible adult does – I researched. I watched YouTube videos. I read articles. I joined Facebook groups where people have PRONOWNZ for their cats in their bios.

And then I went shopping. Oh, did I go shopping.

I walked into the pet store like, "Give me your finest cat accommodations." I bought everything. Cat towers – plural. Multiple scratching posts in different textures because apparently cats have preferences like they're shopping at Bed Baath & Beyond. I got the fancy litter box that looks like a spaceship. The ceramic food bowls – because I read that plastic can cause cat acne. Cat acne. That's a thing we're worried about now.

I got toys. So many toys. Feather wands, laser pointers, crinkle balls, mice filled with organic catnip – ORGANIC CATNIP, people, because my cats are basically shopping at Whole Foods.

My cart looked like I was preparing for a feline apocalypse. The cashier rang me up and goes, "First time cat owner?" And I'm like, "How did you know?" She just pointed at the receipt. Five hundred and seventy-three dollars.

For CATS.

Cats that, by the way, ignored every single toy I bought and instead became OBSESSED with a crumpled receipt and a hair tie they found under the couch.

But here's my favorite part – the part nobody warns you about. Nobody mentions the murder mittens.

You know what murder mittens are? Those adorable little toe beans that look so cute? Yeah, they come equipped with SWITCHBLADES. Tiny, razor-sharp switchblades that kittens have not yet learned to retract.

Every morning, I open a can of cat food. EVERY MORNING, both kittens hear that can opener from wherever they are in the apartment – and they could be in a different ZIP code for all I know – and they come RUNNING.

But they don't just run to their bowls. Oh no. They have to CLIMB ME to get there faster. Like I'm Everest and they're Edmund Hillary with a death wish.

They launch themselves at my legs – THWAP! Claws out, all sixteen engaged. Then they SCALE ME. Up my thighs – OW – up my torso – STOP – across my shoulders. I'm opening a can of Fancy Feast and getting turned into a cat scratching post at the same time.

4905/7500

So... I'm a cat owner now. Yeah. **(pauses for effect)** I know what you're thinking – "Oh, how nice! Cats are so low maintenance! They're so independent!" LIES. All lies. Propaganda spread by Big Kitten. It started innocently enough. I was on YouTube at 2 AM – as one does – and the algorithm... oh, the algorithm knew exactly what it was doing. One video of a kitten falling asleep in a teacup. That's all it took. Suddenly I'm twelve videos deep, watching a kitten try to fight its own reflection, and I'm crying. CRYING. Over a cat that doesn't even know I exist. Three days later, I'm at the animal shelter. I had a plan, people. A PLAN. One kitten. One adorable, manageable kitten. I walk in, and there's this woman working there – let's call her "The Clozer." I point to this little orange tabby and say, "That one. I'll take that one." And she looks at me with these knowing eyes and goes, "Oh, honey... you're gonna want two." "Two?" "Two kittens are actually easier" Easier. EASIER. You know what else is easier? Two tornados instead of one! Two toddlers on espresso! Two gremlins after midnight! But she's got this whole pitch ready. "They'll entertain each other! They'll tire each other out! They'll keep each other company!" And I'm standing there, thinking I'm about to make a responsible, informed decision, when she puts a second kitten in my arms – a little gray one with huge eyes – I folded like a lawn chair. "I'll take them both." The Clozer smiles. She KNOWS. She's done this before. She's ruined lives professionally. So now I'm driving home with these two fuzzballs, and they're in their carrier making the tiniest, most pathetic sounds you've ever heard. I'm thinking, "This is gonna be great. They're so small! So sweet! Look how they fit in the palm of my hand!" What I didn't realize is that I had just adopted two Tasmanian devils in cat costumes. Two miniature engines of chaos that run on pure, uncut anarchy. Here's what nobody tells you about kittens: They operate on a schedule. A very specific schedule. Seven times a day – SEVEN TIMES – these little monsters go on what I can only describe as "Destruction Missions." Thirty minutes each. Like clockwork. It's like they have a union contract. "Article 3, Section 7: All kittens must wreak havoc in 30-minute intervals, with mandatory nap breaks to recharge their tiny, terrible bodies." And the naps! Oh, the NAPS are adorable! They curl up together in a little yin-yang formation, and you think, "Aww, look at my sweet angels." You take forty pictures. You send them to everyone you know. You post them online with hashtags like hashtag cat person and hashtag Cat Mom. Then they wake up. And it's ON. Before I got these cats, I did what any responsible adult does – I researched. I watched YouTube videos. I read articles. I joined Facebook groups where people have PRONOWNZ for their cats in their bios. And then I went shopping. Oh, did I go shopping. I walked into the pet store like, "Give me your finest cat accommodations." I bought everything. Cat towers – plural. Multiple scratching posts in different textures because apparently cats have preferences like they're shopping at Bed Baath & Beyond. I got the fancy litter box that looks like a spaceship. The ceramic food bowls – because I read that plastic can cause cat acne. Cat acne. That's a thing we're worried about now. I got toys. So many toys. Feather wands, laser pointers, crinkle balls, mice filled with organic catnip – ORGANIC CATNIP, people, because my cats are basically shopping at Whole Foods. My cart looked like I was preparing for a feline apocalypse. The cashier rang me up and goes, "First time cat owner?" And I'm like, "How did you know?" She just pointed at the receipt. Five hundred and seventy-three dollars. For CATS. Cats that, by the way, ignored every single toy I bought and instead became OBSESSED with a crumpled receipt and a hair tie they found under the couch. But here's my favorite part – the part nobody warns you about. Nobody mentions the murder mittens. You know what murder mittens are? Those adorable little toe beans that look so cute? Yeah, they come equipped with SWITCHBLADES. Tiny, razor-sharp switchblades that kittens have not yet learned to retract. Every morning, I open a can of cat food. EVERY MORNING, both kittens hear that can opener from wherever they are in the apartment – and they could be in a different ZIP code for all I know – and they come RUNNING. But they don't just run to their bowls. Oh no. They have to CLIMB ME to get there faster. Like I'm Everest and they're Edmund Hillary with a death wish. They launch themselves at my legs – THWAP! Claws out, all sixteen engaged. Then they SCALE ME. Up my thighs – OW – up my torso – STOP – across my shoulders. I'm opening a can of Fancy Feast and getting turned into a cat scratching post at the same time.

0/500