Saturday, July 16, 2005
What is she plotting?
Conspiracy?
Our cats used to just hate each other. It was worrisome, frankly—my husband’s cats and my cats had a definite opinion what they'd like to have happen to each other, and it involved having the other two cats ejected forcefully from the house while being eaten by dragon-snouted weasels. All cats seemed to like the human residents just fine, but when it came to each other, it was the feline version of Mad Magazine’s Spy vs. Spy.
However, lately, something has changed. They’re not getting along, exactly, but they’re—it’s as if they’re plotting. I’ve see them meeting on the kitchen table at four a.m. on the table, looking each other from each side without fighting when I refill water. Suddenly, certain bills and other items are mysteriously shredded and coupons for cat treats (tragically ripped from the Sunday paper) are everywhere. I’m not going to even relate the pain and suffering that occurs here when they run out of nip. We just try very hard to make sure they are supplied, all right?
This whole thing makes me think I misjudged Alex* all along.
In my early twenties I had this off again on again relationship with a guy who was a lot of fun (Alex). One night he just showed up at my apartment at three in the morning with terror in his eyes. He looked as if he hadn't slept in a couple of days, and he was somewhat--pungent. I was extremely worried about him.
“You’re the only person who would understand this stuff. Jules, they’re after me.”
“Who? What?” I tried my best to comfort him.
It was then my cat, Quetzlcoatl, came out to greet him. Alex turned and screamed in terror.
“Oh, God--they’ve got you, too. Those things—cats—they’re gonna take over the world, Jules.”
“Nah—they just want cat treats,” I reassured him.
But Quetzlcoatl’s eyes flashed menacingly. I picked her up and carried her inside the house, and we sat outside (“I know they know. Their spies are everywhere” he said, eyes dancing wildly in search of possible strays) and discussed the “cat conspiracy”. The main points are this: cats were not selected as I believed, through a combination of Darwin’s natural selection and breeding encouraged by the humans with whom they’d developed a symbiotic relationship with, but were “aliens” from another planet sent to attack him. “They lied at Roswell! You know that’s true!” he insisted.
It was then I realized that my occasional lover had gone on an acid trip without bothering to find somebody to babysit—so I did so and he laughed at himself several hours later. However, after recent events I’ve begun to reconsider his delusion. What if he’d accidentally stumbled upon a scary truth? Why do our credit cards mysteriously end up missing, only to be discovered days later in odd places with tooth marks on them? Who has sent us all this expensive tuna?
*Name changed to protect the guilty.
However, lately, something has changed. They’re not getting along, exactly, but they’re—it’s as if they’re plotting. I’ve see them meeting on the kitchen table at four a.m. on the table, looking each other from each side without fighting when I refill water. Suddenly, certain bills and other items are mysteriously shredded and coupons for cat treats (tragically ripped from the Sunday paper) are everywhere. I’m not going to even relate the pain and suffering that occurs here when they run out of nip. We just try very hard to make sure they are supplied, all right?
This whole thing makes me think I misjudged Alex* all along.
In my early twenties I had this off again on again relationship with a guy who was a lot of fun (Alex). One night he just showed up at my apartment at three in the morning with terror in his eyes. He looked as if he hadn't slept in a couple of days, and he was somewhat--pungent. I was extremely worried about him.
“You’re the only person who would understand this stuff. Jules, they’re after me.”
“Who? What?” I tried my best to comfort him.
It was then my cat, Quetzlcoatl, came out to greet him. Alex turned and screamed in terror.
“Oh, God--they’ve got you, too. Those things—cats—they’re gonna take over the world, Jules.”
“Nah—they just want cat treats,” I reassured him.
But Quetzlcoatl’s eyes flashed menacingly. I picked her up and carried her inside the house, and we sat outside (“I know they know. Their spies are everywhere” he said, eyes dancing wildly in search of possible strays) and discussed the “cat conspiracy”. The main points are this: cats were not selected as I believed, through a combination of Darwin’s natural selection and breeding encouraged by the humans with whom they’d developed a symbiotic relationship with, but were “aliens” from another planet sent to attack him. “They lied at Roswell! You know that’s true!” he insisted.
It was then I realized that my occasional lover had gone on an acid trip without bothering to find somebody to babysit—so I did so and he laughed at himself several hours later. However, after recent events I’ve begun to reconsider his delusion. What if he’d accidentally stumbled upon a scary truth? Why do our credit cards mysteriously end up missing, only to be discovered days later in odd places with tooth marks on them? Who has sent us all this expensive tuna?
*Name changed to protect the guilty.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
