So you're thinking about getting a cat.

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

So you're thinking about getting a cat. Let me guess—you've been watching too many videos online? You've seen those clips where the cat does something adorable for five seconds, and you're like, "I need that energy in my life!"
No. What you need is therapy. But sure, let's get a cat.
Everyone told me, "Cats are so independent! They're so low-maintenance!" You know who says that? People who've never owned cats... Cats are independent the same way a toddler is independent. Sure, they CAN do things by themselves, but they've decided YOU'RE going to do it instead.
I have two male cats—because apparently one agent of chaos wasn't enough—and they will sit next to FULL bowls of food and scream at me like I've abandoned them in the wilderness. The food is RIGHT THERE. They can see it. I can see it. We're all looking at it. But apparently, it doesn't count unless I walk over and point at it like I'm a game show host. "Contestants, behind Bowl Number One, we have... TUNA WITH GRAVY !"
And they've got this system worked out. One will start yelling, and if I ignore him, the other one joins in. It's like a furry barbershop quartet, except there's only two of them and they only know one song: "FEED ME NOW."
---
And let's talk about the litter box. Nobody prepares you for the litter box. Before I got cats—yeah, TWO, because apparently I hate myself—I thought, "How bad could it be?" I'll tell you how bad: Imagine if someone asked you to be a bathroom attendant, but the bathroom was in your bedroom, and the people using it refused to flush AND, maintained eye contact the entire time their using it.
That's a litter box.
My cats act like they're doing ME a favor by using it. They'll walk out like they just negotiated world peace and sometimes like they've lit a fuse on a bomb. Meanwhile, I'm in there with a scooper like I'm on an archaeological dig. "Ah yes, here we have a specimen from the Paleolithic era.! "
And they kick litter EVERYWHERE. I don't even have carpet—I have hardwood floors—and somehow I find litter in my bed. IN MY BED? . How?! Are they running a litter transportation service while I sleep? And I swear they coordinate it. One goes, kicks litter everywhere, and the other one comes in like, "Oh, I can do better than that," and just goes to town.
---
So I tried to establish ONE boundary. Just one. I started locking the bathroom door. That's it! I just wanted five minutes of peace. Five minutes where I'm not being supervised.
At first, I just closed the door. Didn't work. Know why? Because these geniuses figured out how to open doors. They can't open jars, can't open the treat container, but door handles? Oh, they've mastered those. I'll be in there, and I just hear *click" and the door swings open. One of them stands there like, "Oh, were you using this room? Don't mind us."
So I started LOCKING the door. And you know what they did? They adapted. Now they reach their little paws under the door—and I can see them, just these tiny furry paws appearing like something out of a horror movie—and they've discovered the door stopper. You know, that spring thing?
TWANG . TWANG., TWANG.
For TEN MINUTES STRAIGHT. They take TURNS. One gets tired, the other one tags in. They've created a shift schedule specifically designed to break my will. I'm in there like, "I just want to brush my teeth in peace!" TWANG. TWANG, TWANG .
Eventually I give up and come out, and they just look at me like, "Oh good, you're done. We need something." They didn't even need anything! It was just about asserting dominance!
---
But here's the thing about cats—they're MASTERS of manipulation...
Dogs? Dogs love you unconditionally. Dogs are like, "You came home! This is the best day of my life!" Cats are like, "Oh, you're back. We've been auditioning your replacement, but they didn't work out, so I guess you'll do."
And I've got two male cats, which means I'm outnumbered. They've figured out they can tag-team me. One will distract me while the other one gets into something he shouldn't. It's like living with two tiny, furry con artists.
Let me tell you about my Sunday mornings. Every Sunday, I have this little ritual. I make myself a cup of tea, I get a warm scone with butter and jam, I light a cozy fire, and I sit in my favorite chair. It's my ONE peaceful moment in the week.
So there I am, last Sunday. One cat is snoozing on the floor next to me—just a little angel, completely passed out. The other one's wandering around the house somewhere. My scone is perfect. The butter is melting. The jam is glistening. I'm about to take that first glorious bite, and—
CRASH!
Loud. From my office. Upstairs.
I put the scone down—scone back on the plate—and I rush upstairs. I get to my office, and there's the other cat, standing on my desk, just looking down at my pencil holder on the floor. Pencils everywhere. He looks at me like, "Oh, hey. This just happened. Weird, right?"

4909/7500

So you're thinking about getting a cat. Let me guess—you've been watching too many videos online? You've seen those clips where the cat does something adorable for five seconds, and you're like, "I need that energy in my life!" No. What you need is therapy. But sure, let's get a cat. Everyone told me, "Cats are so independent! They're so low-maintenance!" You know who says that? People who've never owned cats... Cats are independent the same way a toddler is independent. Sure, they CAN do things by themselves, but they've decided YOU'RE going to do it instead. I have two male cats—because apparently one agent of chaos wasn't enough—and they will sit next to FULL bowls of food and scream at me like I've abandoned them in the wilderness. The food is RIGHT THERE. They can see it. I can see it. We're all looking at it. But apparently, it doesn't count unless I walk over and point at it like I'm a game show host. "Contestants, behind Bowl Number One, we have... TUNA WITH GRAVY !" And they've got this system worked out. One will start yelling, and if I ignore him, the other one joins in. It's like a furry barbershop quartet, except there's only two of them and they only know one song: "FEED ME NOW." --- And let's talk about the litter box. Nobody prepares you for the litter box. Before I got cats—yeah, TWO, because apparently I hate myself—I thought, "How bad could it be?" I'll tell you how bad: Imagine if someone asked you to be a bathroom attendant, but the bathroom was in your bedroom, and the people using it refused to flush AND, maintained eye contact the entire time their using it. That's a litter box. My cats act like they're doing ME a favor by using it. They'll walk out like they just negotiated world peace and sometimes like they've lit a fuse on a bomb. Meanwhile, I'm in there with a scooper like I'm on an archaeological dig. "Ah yes, here we have a specimen from the Paleolithic era.! " And they kick litter EVERYWHERE. I don't even have carpet—I have hardwood floors—and somehow I find litter in my bed. IN MY BED? . How?! Are they running a litter transportation service while I sleep? And I swear they coordinate it. One goes, kicks litter everywhere, and the other one comes in like, "Oh, I can do better than that," and just goes to town. --- So I tried to establish ONE boundary. Just one. I started locking the bathroom door. That's it! I just wanted five minutes of peace. Five minutes where I'm not being supervised. At first, I just closed the door. Didn't work. Know why? Because these geniuses figured out how to open doors. They can't open jars, can't open the treat container, but door handles? Oh, they've mastered those. I'll be in there, and I just hear *click" and the door swings open. One of them stands there like, "Oh, were you using this room? Don't mind us." So I started LOCKING the door. And you know what they did? They adapted. Now they reach their little paws under the door—and I can see them, just these tiny furry paws appearing like something out of a horror movie—and they've discovered the door stopper. You know, that spring thing? TWANG . TWANG., TWANG. For TEN MINUTES STRAIGHT. They take TURNS. One gets tired, the other one tags in. They've created a shift schedule specifically designed to break my will. I'm in there like, "I just want to brush my teeth in peace!" TWANG. TWANG, TWANG . Eventually I give up and come out, and they just look at me like, "Oh good, you're done. We need something." They didn't even need anything! It was just about asserting dominance! --- But here's the thing about cats—they're MASTERS of manipulation... Dogs? Dogs love you unconditionally. Dogs are like, "You came home! This is the best day of my life!" Cats are like, "Oh, you're back. We've been auditioning your replacement, but they didn't work out, so I guess you'll do." And I've got two male cats, which means I'm outnumbered. They've figured out they can tag-team me. One will distract me while the other one gets into something he shouldn't. It's like living with two tiny, furry con artists. Let me tell you about my Sunday mornings. Every Sunday, I have this little ritual. I make myself a cup of tea, I get a warm scone with butter and jam, I light a cozy fire, and I sit in my favorite chair. It's my ONE peaceful moment in the week. So there I am, last Sunday. One cat is snoozing on the floor next to me—just a little angel, completely passed out. The other one's wandering around the house somewhere. My scone is perfect. The butter is melting. The jam is glistening. I'm about to take that first glorious bite, and— CRASH! Loud. From my office. Upstairs. I put the scone down—scone back on the plate—and I rush upstairs. I get to my office, and there's the other cat, standing on my desk, just looking down at my pencil holder on the floor. Pencils everywhere. He looks at me like, "Oh, hey. This just happened. Weird, right?"

0/500