Cats

GOD I hate cats. Not on principle. I see a kitten and I get as squishy and lovey dovey as the next person. I even pet cats. But right now, I HATE cats.

I especially hate Scruffy's cat, Oscar. I don't even have a picture of Oscar to share with you. I don't take pictures of Oscar. Because I can't stand him.

Oscar is a cat going through an identity crisis. In many ways, he is a cat. In other ways, he is a dog. I attribute this to the fact that when he was a kitten and we acquired him 7 years ago (and I picked him out - that was back when I liked cats, you see) Sasha used to pull him and his brother into bed with her and lick them for hours. We'd find them in the morning, wet with dog slobber. When the brother got hit by a car, Oscar's affections had nowhere to go but to the dogs, which resulted in him crouching for 10 minutes at a time while Roscoe humped him.

You can't feel bad for a cat that doesn't even try to get away from the dog humping it. That's how messed up Oscar is. He just lies there and takes it.

When you pull into the driveway, Oscar runs out to greet you. Like a dog. (He is like a little Wal Mart greeter.)
He scratches at the door to come in the house. Like a dog.
He drools on your pant leg if you pet him too long. Like a dog.

Unfortunately, Oscar's transition into dogginess is not yet complete, which is evidenced by him pooping ALL OVER IN MY FLOWERBEDS.

This past week I've been digging and raking the soil, adding compost and prepping it for my flowers. I love to garden, and playing in the dirt is my happy place. Playing in cat turds is NOT. It's disgusting. I water and I can actually SMELL cat poop.

Shudder. The cat is supposed to live in the barn, where he has a nice warm bed, a litter box, and a bowl full of food. Scruffy pets him in the barn. In the barn, Oscar has a purpose, and a destiny. He catches mice.

After he catches the mice, he ingests them.

And after he ingests them, he barfs them back up. Usually on my front doorstep. So I open the door in the morning, and find a pile of bloody mouse guts puked up by the cat. This is another situation that is NOT my happy place (see turds, cat.)

I can't bring myself to do anything about the cat other than to glare at him when he goes by. Sometimes I call him names. He appears to be unaffected. I wish I could say the same for the flowerbeds, and for the front doorstep, too.

Ew.