A Glimpse of My Personal Demons

So there are these two, evil little hell-minions that dominate my world, wreaking havoc at every turn, all day and all night. Otherwise known as my cats.

I love them. But they are their own special little flavor of pure evil. They are Devon Rexes... an amazing breed which I sought out, specifically, and PAID for. (I know, please don't hate me. I have all sorts of Catholic guilt [which is interesting, being the rather unreligious person that I am] over that, having grown up with adopted shelter kitties my whole life.)

I got Sugar when I was going through a weird phase in my life... full of bumps and unknowns and hopes and despair... and she filled a huge need. We bonded in a crazy way, more than I have ever realized was possible with a cat. She would wait, impatiently, at the window, every day, for me to come home. When I moved in with The Funasaurus, she and he bonded immediately, because he was home all day, studying for the bar, and she was... asleep on the new, queen-sized bed.

Under the covers, I might add.

But Sugar grew to love The Funasaurus. Mostly because his shoulders are much larger than mine (!) and he let her ride around on them all day. That is Good Times in Sugar World. But she became sad when I was no longer able to come home for lunch every day, and The Funasaurus got a real job, which expected him to be in the office all day long, and not sitting at home, dispensing cat treats willy-nilly.

We could hear her cry (CRY!) in the hallway outside of our apartment every day as we left and when we came home at night.

That broke my heart. She needed a friend. So we got Tatum. A lovely little boy. Who vomited all over himself and me on the way home from the breeder. And then things went downhill from there. He was a boy. He played like a boy. And Sugar is a princess. Who takes after her mom.

(Hi!)

As a kitten, Tatum, in all of his 2.nothing pounds, would stalk Sugar and attack her. Sugar, four times larger than him, would SCREAM and hiss and just let him beat her up. And then act Very Sad and Disgusted by Life. *sigh.* (No, really, she sighed.)

If she would fall asleep, Tatum would bite her head. If she tried to wash herself, Tatum would chomp on her tail and not let go. And then poke her in the eyeballs. I think he secretly watched The Three Stooges while we were at work. I have taken Sugar to the vet more than once for scratches on her eyes. Poor baby. The vet calls it some strain of feline hepatitis, or something. I call it, "Evil. Your name is Tatum."

Over time, Sugar has learned to bite back. And even stalk Tatum. Which is good, because he is now almost as large as she is. But she is still much holier than thou. Thou being Tatum. (and also: most of the rest of the world.)

They are still very different. Sugar is extremely graceful and delicate, and knows not to walk on computers, instinctively, and is very good at balancing. Tatum is a knucklehead. (I love that world, by the way! Knucklehead. It's fantastic. I think we should all make a concerted effort to use it today, and slowly reintegrate it into the hip vernacular. It's so worth it.) Tatum also runs a lot.

Often in to walls.

Or down stairs. Not always feet first. He likes to chase toy mice, and even plays fetch. He has no regard for personal items. (has climbed: my leg. [with no pants on] The bookshelf. [the books part, not the solid furniture part] The office chair. [Sugar is able to jump] Guests. [unsuspecting] The stair hand railing. [plain ol' stairs are not good enough] Pile of office work I brought home ["cat climbed my homework?"] and fine linen [inherited from now-deceased Grandma.])

Meanwhile, Sugar, having learned to chase him as well as run away from him, is getting herself into all sorts of new trouble. She will jump the cord for charging my digital camera, but Tatum is too dumb and runs right through it in hot pursuit, thereby strangling himself (choking kitty sounds are *awesome*) and knocking my Very Nice camera to the floor, causing it to bounce. Expensive digital equipment is not really good at "bouncing," per se. Pisses me off.

Last night I came home to a pile of pictures that had been overturned. If you know ANYTHING about my slight compulsive tendencies regarding pictures, you would understand what a hugefuckingdeal that was.

This morning they brought the shower curtain down. (Can't climb the plastic liner, knucklehead!)

By this evening I'm expecting some sort of creative Utter Destruction of my kitchen appliances. Or plants. I live in dread of what wicked scheme they might be plotting every day. But they are also good at cuddling, and really do love you unconditionally. Tatum even spoons me at night. You haven't lived until you've had an a very warm but occasionally evil kitty stretch out as long as he possibly can against your abdomen and purr you to sleep. "But that's cute," you say. You'd be right. You also would not have yet gotten to the part where he starts to knead your face at 3:30 a.m., unrelentlessly. I have come very close to losing an eye, mid-R.E.M.

But I still say he's worth meeting. You should come over. He'll spoon you and play fetch. And then poke your eye out when you're least expecting it.

And Sugar will sigh.

Welcome to my world.