So you're thinking about getting a cat. part two

Sarcastic Monologue sspoken word, humor, American Stand-up Comedian

The ENTIRE scone. Just vanished. I'm looking around like I'm in a magic show. "Where did it—HOW did he—" And then I see him, sitting by the fireplace, licking butter off his whiskers, looking SO proud of himself.

They played me. The crash was a DISTRACTION. This was a coordinated heist! Ocean's Eleven, but with fur!

Two weeks later—TWO WEEKS—I think I'm smart now. I've learned my lesson. Sunday morning, same setup. Tea, scone, fire, favorite chair. One cat snoozing on the floor—again with the innocent sleeping act. The other one wandering around. I'm about to take a bite, and—

CRASH!

From the downstairs hall bathroom this time.

But THIS time, I'm ready. I grab my plate. I take the scone WITH me. I'm not falling for this again! The cat on the floor is still snoozing—I check! He hasn't moved! I go to the bathroom, and there's the other cat, curled up in the sink, looking adorable. The air freshener can is on the floor. He looks up at me with these big eyes like, "I was just trying to get comfortable."

Too cute to scold. So I go back to the living room, victorious. I HAVE MY SCONE. I have outsmarted the cats!

And the cat that was on the floor? Now he's in my chair. Curled up in a perfect little ball, completely passed out. And he looks SO peaceful, SO cozy, that I can't bring myself to move him.

So you know where I ate my scone? On the floor. In front of the fireplace. My scone is now cold. I'm sitting on the ground like a peasant in my own house. And BOTH cats are snoozing in the warm spots.

They didn't even want the scone the second time. They just wanted my chair. This was never about food—this was about territory. They've been running long cons on me, and I'm just NOW figuring it out!

But here's something else that hapened—and I'm not making this up—they've trained ME. Like, I thought you train a pet, right? You train a dog to sit, to stay, to roll over. Well, my cats have trained me to feed them at EXACTLY 6 AM. Not 6:05. Not 5:55. Six. On. The. Dot.

How did they do this? Classical conditioning. Pavlov would be DELIGHTED. Every morning at 5:45, one cat sits on my chest and stares at me. Just... stares. Have you ever woken up to a cat staring at you? It's like a horror movie. Those eyes boring into your soul. The other one starts knocking things off my nightstand. Knock. Pause. Knock. Pause. They've scientifically determined the exact rhythm that will break a human.

By 6 AM, I'm up. Every. Single. Day. Weekends? Holidays? Christmas morning? Doesn't matter. They've trained me better than any alarm clock.

And the worst part? They KNOW they've done it. Last week, I walked outside to get the mail—just the mail, literally thirty seconds—and I hear it. Not the door closing. No, no, no. I hear the DEADBOLT CLACK. That solid, unmistakable sound of a deadbolt sliding into place.

I turn around, and BOTH cats are sitting in the window, watching me. Just... observing. Like scientists studying a specimen. One of them had somehow locked the door. The DEADBOLT. They don't have opposable thumbs! But there I am, locked out of my own house, standing in my pajamas, and they're on the windowsill taking notes. I swear one of them had a little clipboard. "Day 47: Subject responds predictably to door stimuli. Continue observation."

I had to call a locksmith. You know how humiliating it is to explain to a locksmith that you've been locked out... by your cats? He didn't believe me at first. Then he saw them in the window, still watching, and he just nodded knowingly.

So he gets the door open, and I'm trying to explain what happened. "I don't know how they did it, they just—"

And he stops me. "Hey, by any chance, have you started locking the bathroom door?"

I freeze. "...Yes. How did you—"

"They really hate that... They're just sending you a message." He says this like it's the most normal thing in the world. Then he adds,,"I keep a spare key tucked behind my mailbox now."

I'M SORRY, WHAT?! You mean this has happened to YOU? This is a KNOWN PHENOMENON? Is there a support group I should know about?! "Hi, my name is Dave, and my cats have trained me to leave all doors unlocked at all times."

WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'VE SEEN THIS BEFORE?! Is there a cat conspiracy I don't know about?!

---

Now let's discuss the 3 AM zoomies. They don't tell you about this at the shelter. They should have a waiver: "These cats may spontaneously decide that 3 AM is parkour time." My cats will be dead asleep, curled up together like little angels, and then suddenly they're possessed by the spirits of Olympic sprinters. They're racing from room to room like they're being chased by invisible demons—AND they're chasing EACH OTHER, so it's twice as loud.

4935/7500

So I'm cleaning it up, muttering to myself, and I rush back downstairs because my scone is getting cold. I get to the living room, and the cat that was snoozing on the floor? Gone. And you know what else is gone? MY SCONE. The ENTIRE scone. Just vanished. I'm looking around like I'm in a magic show. "Where did it—HOW did he—" And then I see him, sitting by the fireplace, licking butter off his whiskers, looking SO proud of himself. They played me. The crash was a DISTRACTION. This was a coordinated heist! Ocean's Eleven, but with fur! Two weeks later—TWO WEEKS—I think I'm smart now. I've learned my lesson. Sunday morning, same setup. Tea, scone, fire, favorite chair. One cat snoozing on the floor—again with the innocent sleeping act. The other one wandering around. I'm about to take a bite, and— CRASH! From the downstairs hall bathroom this time. But THIS time, I'm ready. I grab my plate. I take the scone WITH me. I'm not falling for this again! The cat on the floor is still snoozing—I check! He hasn't moved! I go to the bathroom, and there's the other cat, curled up in the sink, looking adorable. The air freshener can is on the floor. He looks up at me with these big eyes like, "I was just trying to get comfortable." Too cute to scold. So I go back to the living room, victorious. I HAVE MY SCONE. I have outsmarted the cats! And the cat that was on the floor? Now he's in my chair. Curled up in a perfect little ball, completely passed out. And he looks SO peaceful, SO cozy, that I can't bring myself to move him. So you know where I ate my scone? On the floor. In front of the fireplace. My scone is now cold. I'm sitting on the ground like a peasant in my own house. And BOTH cats are snoozing in the warm spots. They didn't even want the scone the second time. They just wanted my chair. This was never about food—this was about territory. They've been running long cons on me, and I'm just NOW figuring it out! But here's something else that hapened—and I'm not making this up—they've trained ME. Like, I thought you train a pet, right? You train a dog to sit, to stay, to roll over. Well, my cats have trained me to feed them at EXACTLY 6 AM. Not 6:05. Not 5:55. Six. On. The. Dot. How did they do this? Classical conditioning. Pavlov would be DELIGHTED. Every morning at 5:45, one cat sits on my chest and stares at me. Just... stares. Have you ever woken up to a cat staring at you? It's like a horror movie. Those eyes boring into your soul. The other one starts knocking things off my nightstand. Knock. Pause. Knock. Pause. They've scientifically determined the exact rhythm that will break a human. By 6 AM, I'm up. Every. Single. Day. Weekends? Holidays? Christmas morning? Doesn't matter. They've trained me better than any alarm clock. And the worst part? They KNOW they've done it. Last week, I walked outside to get the mail—just the mail, literally thirty seconds—and I hear it. Not the door closing. No, no, no. I hear the DEADBOLT CLACK. That solid, unmistakable sound of a deadbolt sliding into place. I turn around, and BOTH cats are sitting in the window, watching me. Just... observing. Like scientists studying a specimen. One of them had somehow locked the door. The DEADBOLT. They don't have opposable thumbs! But there I am, locked out of my own house, standing in my pajamas, and they're on the windowsill taking notes. I swear one of them had a little clipboard. "Day 47: Subject responds predictably to door stimuli. Continue observation." I had to call a locksmith. You know how humiliating it is to explain to a locksmith that you've been locked out... by your cats? He didn't believe me at first. Then he saw them in the window, still watching, and he just nodded knowingly. So he gets the door open, and I'm trying to explain what happened. "I don't know how they did it, they just—" And he stops me. "Hey, by any chance, have you started locking the bathroom door?" I freeze. "...Yes. How did you—" "They really hate that... They're just sending you a message." He says this like it's the most normal thing in the world. Then he adds,,"I keep a spare key tucked behind my mailbox now." I'M SORRY, WHAT?! You mean this has happened to YOU? This is a KNOWN PHENOMENON? Is there a support group I should know about?! "Hi, my name is Dave, and my cats have trained me to leave all doors unlocked at all times." WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'VE SEEN THIS BEFORE?! Is there a cat conspiracy I don't know about?! --- Now let's discuss the 3 AM zoomies. They don't tell you about this at the shelter. They should have a waiver: "These cats may spontaneously decide that 3 AM is parkour time." My cats will be dead asleep, curled up together like little angels, and then suddenly they're possessed by the spirits of Olympic sprinters. They're racing from room to room like they're being chased by invisible demons—AND they're chasing EACH OTHER, so it's twice as loud.

0/500