Damn Cat, You Ugly

He’s looking at me again. The stupid cat. He’s an orange striped cat. I think there’s a specific name for that color, but I don’t know it, so I’ll just call it ugly. He’s the color of ugly. It could just be his matted coat, or the fact that half his tail is missing, and the remaining half looks like it was a puppy’s chew toy.

I hate that cat. He likes to shit all over my red rose bushes. There’s nothing like waking up in the morning with a hot cup of fresh brewed coffee, walking outside to get the paper and getting a whiff of fresh cat shit air. I wonder if his owner will miss him? He’s old. Nobody ever misses old stuff, or people, for that matter. Old stuff breaks or isn’t as efficient as new stuff. Old people get in the way and cost too much money to keep alive. It’s the truth. Decent help is expensive. People don’t mind changing baby diapers; they’re babies. The poop doesn’t start to stink ‘til they’re older, and by that time they should be going on the big boy potty like all the rest of us. Nobody likes to touch old people diapers. Nothing is cute about a grown man or woman in a diaper full of feces.

I’m not going to get old. I’ve decided. My kids know I stopped aging at twenty-three. That’s how many candles I have on my cake every year now. Never mind that my oldest will catch up to me in a couple of years. He’ll be older than me soon and I’ll be able to laugh at him for being an old fart. I’ll give him a walker for his thirtieth birthday. I’ll upgrade his walker for one with fuzzy green tennis balls on the legs when he turns forty. People will ask if he’s my brother, or worse, my father.

Botox, what do I know about botox? Fillers? What are they filling? What are they filling me with? I saw an infomercial the other day for neck tape. No joke. It’s a strip of tape that goes on the back of your neck. You pull your wrinkly face back and use the tape to hold it all together. Just let your hair down, girlfriend! The world will never know. The strips even come in different colors depending on your skin tone. How creative is that? I don’t know if the strips work, but they’re expensive. So, I decided I would DIY (do it yourself). A couple Pinterest pins later I had made myself some wrinkles be gone, face lift, neck tape strips. I had to add it to my list of Pinterest fails, along with the “lose ten pounds in ten days” pin.

Lies, all of them.

What’s the stupid cat doing now? If he gets close enough, I’ll smack him with the broom. I should probably go get the broom. He’s going underneath the neighbor’s rusty, used to be gold, Oldsmobile. Little does he know that won’t save him. If I don’t get him the fumes will.

The dogs are barking. They know he’s out here. They can smell him. Look at him. He’s staring at me again. His beady eyes are a confusing mixture of grays, golds, and green, and they’re squinting at me. He’s trying to throw me off. I’ll squint back. It’s our very own Mexican standoff.

He’s mad about the holes I made in the tarp over the dog kennel. My dogs would be outside, getting some fresh air, going about their business, when out of nowhere would come this decrepit cat climbing the wooden fence like he’s two years old. He would walk on top of this tan, breathable tarp I placed over the kennel to keep the dogs cool. There are no trees on this side of my house. Besides providing unbearable heat, the sun would serve as a Hollywood spotlight for Ugly. He would walk over that tarp, slowly, like a movie star in stilettos, trying to be sexy on the runway. The dogs would lose it. They tried jumping, super dog power barking, and I may have even seen one of them volunteer to have his back used as a step stool for the other to obtain better height. They failed. They couldn’t reach the damn cat. He knew it too. He’d just take his time climbing up that fence, over that tarp, finding the perfect spot and taking care of business. The first time I found his little, brown tootsie roll, crap on that tarp I didn’t know if I should be pissed off at him or the damn dogs who are supposed to be protecting the place. Well played Ugly, well played.

After a few times of having to climb up a ladder to clean it up, I decided I’d cut some slits into that tarp so when Ugly came around he’d fall right into that dog kennel and relieve me of all my stresses. It wasn’t long before I found a cat collar for a “Señor Pepe” laying on my perfectly manicured backyard lawn. At first, I was excited, then I walked out front a couple of days later and got a good whiff of my routine fresh air. Ugly had an accomplice. We did not cut the head from the snake. The war was not over.

So here we are. He’s got to be low on lives. He moves slower, his fur isn’t as soft, and he even meows with a deeper and broken tone. I move slower these days, too. My brown hair feels coarse, and my singing voice is non-existent. Actually, not so sure about that one. I still sound great when I’m singing alone in the car at three am.

It makes me kind of sad to think about not being able to do the things I like to do. Or even thinking that a fall will mean possible broken ribs or hips. I fell not too long ago. I tripped on a pair of hot pink soccer cleats someone failed to put away. I laid on that fuzzy carpet for what seems like hours, not being able to move. Ugly fell once too. I caught him squatting between the red and peach colored rosebushes in the front yard. I screamed, “AAAAAAHHHHH!” and waved my hands around as if I were a bear about to swallow him whole. He bolted towards the backyard fence but slipped and tumbled. He didn’t break anything, though. Better luck next time.

They say cats don’t poop where they eat. I don’t know who “they” are, but “they” gave me an idea. I’m hoping “they” are scientists who have studied feline behavior and developed a formula to extinguish their miserable existence from the face of the earth. Muaaaaahahahaha. Either way, I’ll give it a shot. I’m sitting in my orange, wooden rocking chair on my nice and clean front porch. The blue door mat reads, “Do not ask for whom the dogs bark, they bark for thee.” It’s for the cat. But the cat already knows this. I was going to place a bowl of two percent milk out in between the rose bushes for Ugly, but then I thought he may be lactose intolerant like myself. The last thing I want is brown, diarrhea smelling roses. I opted for water. It’s safer. I also opened up a can of fresh, yummy, fish and veggie, soft food for him. Well, I figure, if he’s going to fertilize my rosebushes it better be with some good stuff. He hasn’t come close yet. He’s just staring at me like he doesn’t trust me. Huh, insulting!

I guess I’ll go inside and give him some space. I can spy on him from the window. I’ll keep the blinds parted. Do you know my wrinkles have wrinkles now? It’s a damn shame. I used to have great skin. I bet Ugly used to be the talk of the kitty-cat town back in his day, too. Look at him walk. He’s so slow I almost want to make him a mini scooter. I can use my kids train set. Then I could record him and get some YouTube likes. I hear that’s the thing to do.

There ya’ go little Ugly. There ya’ go! Finally reached it, the damn cat. Maybe he’ll realize I’m not a horrible, wretched person who wants to kill him. We’ve got quite a lot in common he and I. Except I don’t shit in the neighbors’ yards. That would be weird, and I think illegal. Well he’s eating! See Ugly, it’s all about trust. Let’s just see how long it takes him to figure out its poisoned. Just kidding.

Or am I?