So... I'm cat owner now. part two

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

I've lost socks, pens, hair ties, AirPods – AIRPODS, people! Do you know how expensive those are? They're just... gone. Vanished. Probably in the same dimension as all the missing socks.
I'm convinced there's a portal to another universe somewhere in my apartment, and these cats are feeding it my belongings like some kind of bizarre sacrifice.
But here's the thing – and I hate admitting this – I love them. I do. Despite the destruction, despite the 3 AM zoomies, despite the fact that my security deposit is definitely not coming back... I love these tiny terrorists.
Because sometimes, after a long day, I'll sit on my ruined couch, and they'll both curl up on my lap. And Kevin will purr so loud it sounds like a tiny motorcycle. And Barbara will do that thing where she kneads my leg with her murder mittens, and yeah, it hurts, but it's also kind of sweet?

And I'll look around at my apartment – at the scratch marks, at the destroyed furniture, at the toy mice scattered everywhere like a tiny, adorable crime scene – and I'll think, "This is fine. This is totally fine."

The Clozer at the shelter was right about one thing: they DO entertain each other. Mostly by plotting my demise together. I've seen them whispering. Planning. They're coordinating.

Last week, I caught them both staring at my TV. Not watching it – just staring at it. Calculating. Measuring. I'm pretty sure they're gonna push it over next.

So if you're thinking about getting a cat because you watched some cute videos online at 2 AM, just know: those videos are LIES. Marketing. Propaganda.

But also... do it anyway. Because yeah, your apartment will look like a poorly managed thrift store, and yeah, you'll bleed more than you ever thought possible from an animal that weighs three pounds, and yeah, you'll question all your life decisions at 3 AM when they're racing through your hallway like tiny, furry race cars...

But you'll also have two little weirdos who love you unconditionally, even if they show it by bringing you dead bugs and sitting on your laptop during Zoom meetings.

Worth it? Ask me again after I get my security deposit back.

I'm not getting it back, am I?

6907/7500

I'm standing there, bleeding, holding cat food, and these two are purring like I'm their hero. Like I didn't just sacrifice my epidermis for their 6 AM breakfast. I've started wearing jeans and a hoodie to feed them. In my own home. I look like I'm about to rob a convenience store just to open a can of tuna. Now, before the cats, my apartment was NICE. I'm talking Architectural Digest nice. I had a vintage mid-century modern couch – leather, cognac brown, cost me three months' rent. I had a glass coffee table. Glass! Why? Because I'm a man of taste and sophistication! I had decorative bowls filled with decorative balls made of decorative twine. Who needs that? Nobody! But it looked AMAZING. I had throw pillows. So many throw pillows. Ones that said things like "Live, Laugh, Love" – ironically, of course. I'm not a MONSTER. Every surface was carefully curated. I had a bookshelf, all first edition arranged by author. BY AUTHOR people. It was my pride and joy... Past tense. Notice I'm using past tense. Week one with the kittens, I come home from work, and my apartment looks like a crime scene. The throw pillows are scattered across the floor. The decorative balls of twine? Unraveled. There's just... string everywhere. It looks like a spider on meth set up shop in my living room. The glass coffee table is somehow still standing, but it's covered in tiny paw prints. Like the kittens held a rave on it at 3 PM and didn't invite me. My beautiful cognac leather couch? Scratched. Not a little. SCRATCHED. It looks like Freddy Krueger used it for practice. And I HAVE a scratching post! Multiple scratching posts! They're right THERE! But no. The couch is better. The couch is forbidden. And we all know the rule – if it's forbidden, it's irresistible. I'm standing there, just... processing. And both kittens walk up to me, tails high, making that little "mrrp?" sound, like, "Oh hey! You're home! We've been so busy today! Did you notice? We redecorated!" Week two, the bookshelf. My beautiful bookshelf. I wake up at 2 AM to a CRASH. I jump out of bed, heart pounding, thinking someone's breaking in. I run into the living room, and there's books EVERYWHERE. Destroyed! Murdered. Gone. And sitting in the middle of the carnage, looking absolutely pleased with themselves, are both kittens. The orange one has somehow gotten a paperback stuck on his head. The gray one is batting at a bookmark like it's the most offensive thing she's ever seen. I'm standing there in my underwear, half-asleep, looking at my ruined bookshelf, and all I can think is, "I used to have friends over. I used to host dinner parties." Now my apartment looks like a poorly managed thrift store had a fight with a yarn factory. The decorative bowls didn't stand a chance. Kittens see a decorative bowl on a table and think, "I wonder what would happen if I just... pushed this?" And then they find out! The answer is: it breaks! And that's FASCINATING. So they do it again with the next bowl. Scientific method! Trial and error! My home is their laboratory! I've tried everything. I bought those sticky tape things you put on furniture so cats won't scratch. You know what happened? They scratched around the tape. AROUND IT. Like they were leaving me a message: "Nice try, human." I bought a spray bottle. Everyone says, "Just spray them with water when they're bad!" You know what my cats do when I spray them? They stare at me. Just... stare. Like, "Really? That's your move? Water? We're APEX PREDATORS, Kevin." Yeah, I named them Kevin and Barbara. I don't know why. It made sense at the time. At night – oh, at night is when the real magic happens. 3 AM, every single night, I hear it. The thundering. The galloping. Kevin and Barbara have decided that 3 AM is when the apartment Olympics begin. They chase each other up and down the hallway. They parkour off the walls. I'm pretty sure they're training for some kind of feline Ninja Warrior competition. And my bedroom door? I keep it closed now. Because if I don't, they'll sit on my face at 4 AM demanding breakfast. Just sit there. Right on my face. Like tiny, furry sleep paralysis demons. I've woken up to Kevin's butthole one inch from my nose more times than I'd like to admit in polite company. My friends don't visit anymore. They used to come over all the time. We'd have drinks, watch movies, talk about our lives. Now when I invite people over, they're like, "Uhhh, I'm good. I saw your Instagram stories. Your apartment looks like a tornado went through a PetSmart." And they're not wrong! Last week, I couldn't find my remote control for three days. THREE DAYS. You know where it was? Behind the refrigerator. How? HOW DID IT GET THERE? Kevin and Barbara aren't talking. I've lost socks, pens, hair ties, AirPods – AIRPODS, people! Do you know how expensive those are? They're just... gone. Vanished. Probably in the same dimension as all the missing socks. I'm convinced there's a portal to another universe somewhere in my apartment, and these cats are feeding it my belongings like some kind of bizarre sacrifice. But here's the thing – and I hate admitting this – I love them. I do. Despite the destruction, despite the 3 AM zoomies, despite the fact that my security deposit is definitely not coming back... I love these tiny terrorists. Because sometimes, after a long day, I'll sit on my ruined couch, and they'll both curl up on my lap. And Kevin will purr so loud it sounds like a tiny motorcycle. And Barbara will do that thing where she kneads my leg with her murder mittens, and yeah, it hurts, but it's also kind of sweet? And I'll look around at my apartment – at the scratch marks, at the destroyed furniture, at the toy mice scattered everywhere like a tiny, adorable crime scene – and I'll think, "This is fine. This is totally fine." The Clozer at the shelter was right about one thing: they DO entertain each other. Mostly by plotting my demise together. I've seen them whispering. Planning. They're coordinating. Last week, I caught them both staring at my TV. Not watching it – just staring at it. Calculating. Measuring. I'm pretty sure they're gonna push it over next. So if you're thinking about getting a cat because you watched some cute videos online at 2 AM, just know: those videos are LIES. Marketing. Propaganda. But also... do it anyway. Because yeah, your apartment will look like a poorly managed thrift store, and yeah, you'll bleed more than you ever thought possible from an animal that weighs three pounds, and yeah, you'll question all your life decisions at 3 AM when they're racing through your hallway like tiny, furry race cars... But you'll also have two little weirdos who love you unconditionally, even if they show it by bringing you dead bugs and sitting on your laptop during Zoom meetings. Worth it? Ask me again after I get my security deposit back. I'm not getting it back, am I?

0/500