If You Play Her Meows Backward, There Are Hidden Messages

Well, today’s post was going to be my response to the questions generated by last week’s post. But since I only got one of those so far, I’m using my blogger’s prerogative to put that off for a day or two more. If I still don’t get any other questions than the ridiculously awesome one by letmestartbysaying, I will answer all the questions I posed to you guys AND her amazing question.

So for today’s post, I’m going to talk about Sister. It’s only fair, since she’s left me for almost two weeks alone in her house with her cat. Or she will have done. Two weeks from now. What I mean is, Sister flew out last night and will return in two weeks. At which point she will have left me for two weeks. Get it? I thought so. Why would Sister abandon me, you ask? Good question. Sister is going to a friend’s wedding. In California. On a golf course. And she’s tacking on a trip south to go see my adorable and brilliant niece. And cuddle her. And snuggle her. And do all kinds of fun things with her. Which I am not jealous about. Not one single bit. Except a tiny bit. Which is to say, quite a lot, really. But some of my bitterness comes not from Sister's ability to cuddle my niece when I can’t, but from Sister’s cat.

Since Sister’s Cat can also be called Satan’s Cat (not that Sister can be called Satan, but that Satan may or may not have bred and trained Sister’s cat before Sister adopted her), she must be locked up in Sister’s room whenever she is unsupervised in order to mitigate the extent of her damage. Oh, the damage this cat can wreak. Any glass of water left anywhere in the house, regardless of how much water is in the glass, will be up-ended within ten seconds of turning your back, usually onto something precious and irreplaceable. Anything that hangs remotely near the floor (including clothing hung in a closet, drapes on the windows, or power cords from outlets) is fair game for Tarzan reenactments. Nothing is safe from the all consuming claws. And bread... She is a bread-seeking missile with only one mission: to destroy and consume, plastic packaging be damned. These are only some of the exploits of Satan’s Cat, but I think you get the picture. If you still need more examples, think of Simon's Cat. Then multiply it by a factor of five. Then remove the fly from the picture. Then you'll be in a neighborhood slightly adjacent to Satan's Cat. 

In all fairness, the cat has behaved increasingly better over the years, due to both age and a larger house. But not that much better. To remain on the safe side of the claws and incisors, we close her in the master suite if we leave the house or go to bed, where she has access to a large bathroom that contains her food and water, a walk-in closet, and a gigantic bedroom with her scratching post and litter box. She is in no way harmed by this. We do have to lock the door, though, because she’s figured out the door knob, so she lets herself out and greets us at the door when we get home (That’s right; the door knob. Satan’s Cat, remember?). This greeting is usually followed by the phrase, “Oh my God, what have you done?” (Satan’s Cat, remember? Come on. Keep up!).

Sister sleeps in the master suite, since she's the master of the house (or at least the mortgage payer), so one might asume that night time would be safer than when we’re at work, right? One might think this because she’s supervised at night, right? Well, one would be wrong. Most nights, I can hear Sister yelling from across the hallway through two closed doors. It goes something like this: “No, get down. Seriously, with this?! What are you doing? Are you eating something? Don’t eat that! I will get the squirt bottle. Get DOWN! Are you kidding me with this? GET down! Come on… I’m so tired. Settle in, will you? No, get off my face. I can hear you... Where are you? Are you in the guitar case? Get. Out. Ohmydearlordinheaven, CAT!”

In any event, Sister left for two weeks. And like I said, I’m not jealous. Or bitter. But I am sleeping in the master suite with the cat. Because if she has spent the whole day alone in the room while I’m at work, it’s not fair to make her spend the whole night alone also. Plus, the damage would be horrific. This means I get to sleep in a pillow-top queen-size bed and watch a flat screen TV whose remote actually works. But I also have to sleep with the cat. Now, before you jump on the judgy train, I should tell you that I love this cat. She is adorable and can be sweet and cuddly and she enriches our lives. But she is not to be underestimated. She is not. to. be. trusted.

Last night, there were no apparent hijinks, but I’m pretty sure she was still trying to make my life miserable. Every time I was about to get comfortable, she would start walking on me. Just about the time I would need to roll over, she would settle in some mysteriously paralyzing spot on my body. I would try to hold out, not wanting to send her clawing up the drapes or something—a sleeping cat is the best kind of cat when that cat is also Satan’s Cat (I think I saw that embroidered on a pillow once). But eventually, my body would ache and my muscles would protest and I would have to move. When I finally decided to rouse the beast, she was suddenly about 150 pounds. I had to reach under the covers and lift her with my hands once, because she had me pinned like a WWE wrestler. I saw numbers on the digital clock that no one, who is out of college and does not have an infant in their house, should have to see.

I wore her down, though. There are only two ways to make Satan’s Cat get away from you: physically picking her up and moving her away from you multiple times or petting her. That’s right. Satan’s Cat does not like to be touched. Except when she does. But even then she doesn’t really. She only wants you to think she does. So that you’ll try. So that she can SPURN you.

Anyway, I was too sleepy to remember that petting the cat would make her leave me alone, so after about the eighth time I accidently shoved her off the bed or disrupted her sleep, she gave up and went to sleep elsewhere. At one point in the night, I woke up because of the absence of the cat (I know, I can’t catch a break, right?). And then I worried about where she was. But I was too sleepy to hold the thought for long and I fell back to sleep. Nothing was damaged this morning, so I figure we made it. One night down, twelve to go. She did spend the entire morning crying at me—this cat never stops talking and sometimes I swear it’s real words. I think she might be trying to give me a message from her master. No, not Sister. Her other master…

So, um, yeah. This post wasn’t so much about Sister. It was about Sister’s Cat. But I feel better having gotten this off my chest. And I can always blog about Sister tomorrow. Which saves me the trouble of agonizing for an hour to figure out what to write. Which usually ends up a waste of my time, anyway, because the post never goes in the direction I decided. Today is Exhibit One. Which probably means tomorrow will also not be about Sister. But dinosaurs. Or model airplanes. Which would be silly, because I know next to nothing about model airplanes. 

[In case you’re wondering, that paragraph was supposed to serve as the all-important sum-up-and-conclude-the-post final paragraph. Let’s just pretend it did its job, okay? Thanks.]

[And in case you’re wondering about something other than the last paragraph, no. You’re not crazy. The post is completely incoherent and meandering. Welcome to my life.]