Member-only story
I want to kill my cat
She just wants to play
My cat started meowing at 5am, outside my bedroom door. She has a loud voice. And great stamina.
By 6:40, when I finally woke up, she was still meowing.
I’d lain in bed, hoping she would quit. I didn’t get up earlier because I didn’t want to give in and encourage this behavior. By the time I finally did get up, I was ready to strangle her.
I opened the door and looked at her.
She looked back at me, a hopeful look on her face. So innocent. So cute.
I walked to the bathroom. As I sat to pee, she rubbed against my legs and purred, then put a paw on my knee, asking for a pet.
“Don’t even,” I muttered at her.
Now it’s a little past 7. I’ve made my coffee. I am writing this story. And the cat is lying by my feet, content as can be.
She was just lonely. I know.
So why don’t I let her sleep with me? I used to let my previous cat, Snoopy, do that. But Snoopy was almost psychic in her ability to read me. She never woke me up. She would wait until either my husband or I was naturally waking up to gently tap an arm. It was very non-obtrusive. Snoopy was the epitome of patience and consideration.
Opal, my current cat, is none of these things.
She’s bold. She’s brash. She has a meow that travels through the house on wings of steel.
I want to kill my cat this morning.
But I won’t. Because, darn it, despite how much I hate her right now, I also love her. She’s horrible that way.
