Why I Hate My Cats

I have two cats... an old black generic shorthair (Rasputin) and a straight Persian (Flats). I sort of love them... sort of. No wait, scratch that.That was just the nice thing to say, and we don't do that kind of bullshit here.THEY ARE MAKING ME BATSHIT FUCKING CRAZY.

Fleas

Do you have pets? Have you SEEN what we've made the fleas into? Evolution is at work here folks, think about it. Millions of fucking useless housepets, almost all with fleas. We apply the same chemicals to kill them all over the world. The strong survive, the weak die... we are training the fleas to be stronger fleas. And that shit has worked. Those motherfuckers are huge and fast, like black, evil, leaping sesame seeds. Normally I see the little bastards coming. They jump off the cat and I find them crawling around in my fucking socks like little insectoid ninjas... Then I know the infestation is afoot and I bring forth swift, chemical death. Not this time. This time friends, the bastards terraformed my goddamn cat. I shaved her down and found a teeming metropolis of insectoid evil. It was like LV426 under there. The fuckers were all down at the skin, building cities from their blood turd crust. It was fucking unholy. Next step, bath time. Fuck.

Bath Time

Bathing cats just sucks. It sucks huge swollen ass is what it does.

Originally, bathing was much more of an issue, as Flats (who is normally the most quiet, innocuous little being on the planet), when water is applied, gremlinizes into a whirling dervish of razor-sharp death. I'm talking claws in the skin so deep it pulls up like a tent as I run around the room screaming cursewords straight outta Deadwood into her petrified, pan-flat face of cuteness. Now however, I have become a ruthless, dictatorial manhandler of cats. When your ass is in the sink, I am not fucking around. I have the stone-clawed immobilizing hands of a titan and if you so much as meow you're getting the mother's neck grip of death. (that's right beatch) So that's that, the bath shit is HAPPENING.

So, I dropped the poison shampoo bomb on that cat like napalm on a Cambodian village. I generally start by creating a poisonous DMZ around the cat's neck, so the escaping refugees from the body can't hide in the cat's safe, bunker-like orifices. This time, that shit did not work. The freaky-ass genofleas crawled through the DMZ and went for the eyes like hippies descending on a Widespread concert. It was a teeming mass of them... I was shocked. Like I just caught Arnold blowing Willis... I just did not see that shit coming. Blindsided by the sheer numbers, I blasted those bitches with hot water and more poison soap... made the cat into a fluffy cloud of insecticide. This thinned their numbers, but many survived... hiding in the dark recesses of the armpits awaiting the impending hatching of their reinforcements until they could start their unholy fucked-up metropolis anew. I needed bigger weapons.

Capstar - The Shit Gets Real

I went to the vet pronto the next day to acquire the WMD of anti-flea shit - Capstar. This substance is so vile, it turns your cat's vital fluids into unholy demon poison, killing the fleas as they attempt to suck forth the delicious nectar of life. Its a cruel, punji-pit horrible way to die I am sure... I laughed under my breath as I delivered the murderous payload by cramming it into my cat's food hole. Those bitches were going DOWN.

Side Effects

Two days later, Flats goes inert. By inert I mean not fucking moving, total limpness. No eating, no drinking, just laying there like a hairy bag of meat and sticks. At this point, I got concerned. Actually, my roommate Steve got concerned, as he cares about 3X as much about my cats as I do (sorry its true). Flats was not looking good. By this time, its sweet fucking Saturday. If I was a vet, I would not work on Saturday. I would be on my boat with my feet up sucking down martinis because I am rich as fuck. The only person richer than me, would be the sly motherfucker who works on Saturdays. Why you ask? I'll tell you why, just read your ass on.

The Value of Life

Arriving at the only open Saturday vet, I wait for an hour with my limp cat in my lap to see Animal-Jesus-Takes-His-Sweet-Ass-Time. They finally call us in. They give my cat a half-ass, cursory examination while shaking their heads and making the horrible-cruel-person face at me (I don't buy into that bag of crap). Then they tell me they are going to come back with an "Estimate". Now I don't know about you, but when I heard the word "Estimate", my asshole clenches down like a badger on a rodent's neck. I've been to the mechanic bitch, you need to get a new word, because that shit has me looking for exits like I've got PTSD. True to fucking form, the sweet little assistant girl (not the Doctor, as he doesn't want to deal with this unpleasant chunk of reality) brings in the - ahem - "Estimate".

$1300.00

Yes, read that shit again.

$1300.00

Is this a government vet? Because I think the Obama administration is behind this epic, mind-raping number. By The Gaht-Damn Unholy Unjesus there is NO WAY that shit is happening. I laughed contemptuously with the most sarcastic D-Bag chuckle I could muster.

Me: "Uh, yeaaaah... This number isn't gonna work"

Vet Puppet Lady: "Well, we really need to do all these procedures... I don't see anything I can, in good conscience, remove from this list."

Me Again: "Well then, my cat's gonna die."

She didn't even call my bluff. She looked truly shocked, like I had slapped her grandmother in the face with a dildo. I fired back quickly, before the stun debuff could wear off. "I'm sure you can prioritize these treatments and cut this number in half so we can save her life."

Call me an asshole. Go ahead, do that shit. ITS A CAT. My cat gets hit by a car and its eyeball pops out, those hungry bastards are gonna try to sell me a glass fucking cat eye. No dice. Sew that sucker shut. I'll get her a patch and change her name to Old Smedley. My cat has kidney failure? I'm not doin fucking cat dialysis. Make the little bastard comfortable. Painkillers and comforting petting are cheap. I know I seem cruel, but the little fuckers have the best life EVER. All they do is parade around the house being nonchalant and shit and either annoying me while I'm trying to do something useful or they are whining about the free food. They lay on my bed where its nice and warm instead of in a cold, stinking dumpster on a street corner, and then they puke a hairball on my extra pillow while I sleep and then lie next to it. I keep them safe from being savaged by dog teeth, and they stick their paw in my mouth while I sleep and wiggle that shit around to wake me up. I shit you not.

Anyway soon, the Vet Puppet came back with a $700 "Estimate", which I begrudgingly accepted... There's my Good Samaritan Award right there. That shit is an XBox with Gold Live service worth of value sacrificed to save my useless, but magically charming, pet. I've already out peace-prized Obama in his first year just with that.

Needless to say, the extensive battery of space-age tests they conducted with the analysis gear they must've borrowed from fucking NASA found anemia (from fleas, duh), a kidney stone (she's gettin' old) and an abdominal mass they couldn't identify that's probably not life threatening. They injected some fluid under her skin to rehydrate her, and Bang-Fucking-Pow she's back to following me around and breathing her dead-owl breath into my face. Super.

No really though... Flats is a magical, smash-faced being of benevolence and I'm glad she's lived to see today... though I'm barely 700$ glad and I'm Gaht-Damn-Sure I'm not 1300.00$ worth of glad... What would make me 1300.00$ worth of glad? A week in a roomful of squeaky-clean dead-hot Brazilian prostitutes maybe... but for shit-sure not a Felis Catus.