My wife's cat is crazy. I'm probably not the first guy who's ever had that thought because most guys are dog people. I'm not either one, really. I'm more of a pet rock kind of guy - although I generally rescue my pet rocks from the wild because it just seems so cruel seeing all those pet rocks packed together at the store.
But rather than simply wish my life did not now include a furry nocturnal creature who likes to jump on my head at 3 a.m., I decided to do something about it. Then, when I couldn't find anyone willing to buy cats on eBay (I'd have taken two dollars), I decided to do something else about it: I decided to talk with Sadie about her issues.
After this experience, I'm now considering a career in pet psychiatry. I asked Sadie to come into my office for a few minutes, to which she responded, "Meow." But after a few drinks, she began to loosen up. Why she loosened up after I had those few drinks, I don't know, but she did.
"So, Sadie, tell me about you kittenhood," I started.
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"Well, that's part of the problem right there! My name is April. It said it right there on the cage at the shelter where that chick you married got me from. How would you like it if I suddenly started calling you Buford?"
"That's just the way it is, Sadie, er April. That really doesn't explain the hostility."
"No, the hostility comes from the fact that lady took my claws away."
"Well, as I hear, you were scratching the furniture."
"You mean those giant scratching posts with the pillows and cushions?"
"Well, I can't help y'all decided to sit on giant scratching posts. How would you like it if I had your fingers removed? You'd learn what the word itch means, let me tell you. If you're gonna sit on scratching posts, then y'all should have left my claws alone and had your butts removed."
"Too late. I already lost my butt at a poker game last week. Ha! Sorry, just a little pet psychiatrist humor."
"Dude, I'm a cat. We don't do humor. Can you not see the intensity in my eyes. I mean, you throw a string of yarn at me and it's life-or-death man."
"OK, so you've been renamed and declawed. Anything else bothering you?"
"Well, now that you mention it, you humans are nasty. Why do y'all use that icky soap and water when you have perfectly good tongues? I've watched you in the shower. You're lucky to be alive."
"The litter box. Why do you think it's OK to come in the laundry room when I'm using it. That is NOT the best time to startle me! How would you like for me to barge in next time I hear you say, 'I gotta go play some Angry Birds'?"
"Fancy Feast? Really? You call THAT Fancy Feast. You're eating a steak, and I'm stuck with putrid-smelling tuna-chicken-shrimp-fiesta something."
"Actually, I think it's called Seafood Spectacular."
"Um, again, I'm a cat. I don't read. I mean, I could if I wanted to, but I'm hard to motivate."
"Maybe you need a hobby or something to help you relax."
"Hey, I've got hobbies. Sleeping. Sitting on the porch. Trying to decided to go in our out. I meow for no apparent reason, and I barf up artistic hairballs. Oh, and I do a LOT of catnip. I'm like a kitty Charlie Sheen with better acting skills. Speaking of which, I was wondering if you might be able to write a prescription and help me score some. Or maybe put in a good word with that wife of yours, you know, the chick that buys the Fancy Feast."
"Yes, I'm familiar with her. And if I don't?"
"Well, let's just say you've got a 3 a.m. wake-up call coming. And be glad I don't have claws."
Chris Johnson is an independent correspondent. Follow his work at Facebook.com/KudzuKidWriting.