Cursing Out The Cat...

You'd be surprised at the deep-down satisfaction and joy it brings from simply cursing out your cat.

Oh, what's that?  Shock and awe?  Feigned vapors from the mere thought of cursing at one of God's creatures.  Well, to that I would offer that if God wanted a cat to have the intelligence of a pig, for instance, or even the family dog, then he wouldn't have made them likely targets for those desirous finding a lowly creature at which to curse.  And after all, cat's have the innate intelligence of a rock.  Beyond mewing incessantly when they want some gruel, and wanting to go outside when they're in and in when they're out, and looking at you like they'd attack you and kill you and eat you if they thought they were big enough to get away it.  

All of the time.

There may be those out there who have yet to discover that little known advantage of owning a cat.  That's assuming anyone can actually "own" a cat, which I seriously doubt.  If there's any "owning" going around, I'd say the cat's the one doing the owning.  

I mean, think of it folks!  Do cats come when they're called?  Ummm, no.  Do they obey even the simplest of commands?  Ummm, no.  Never.  They're just...there.  Looking all feline, and doing feline things.  Which, it seems, does not include honoring the requests of silly humans.

Anyway, besides the supposed advantages of owning a cat, I submit that being able to blame it for all your problems gives life a sense of new meaning.  Heretofore you would blame the rake when you tripped over the rake.  The rake hits you in the head and you spew forth a tirade of unrepeatable curse words.  Now?  You can trip over the rake, then cut loose with a string of expletives in the cat's direction!  Trust me, the cat won't mind.  He doesn't speak English.  Or any language for that matter.  He only speaks "food," and "mouse," and "sleep."  And you?  You'll feel soooo much better knowing that a carbon-based life form is the recipient of your displeasure.  

I've tried to confuse my cat by mewing back at him when he mews at me.  One would think he might respond in some way or other.  No luck.  He just continues to meow over and over...and over..., unabated, until he gets whatever he wants.  And trust me, after a few hundred mews, I give him anything he wants to get him to shut up.  And I'll continue to do so until one of us up and croaks.  

How did I get in this mess anyway?  Oh yeah, my eldest daughter suggested I needed a companion and thought it ought to be a cat.  So she got me one.  I always new she didn't like me...