datacloud

Things I Have Had to Tell Underdog and Spork's Cats

Just so people think don't think I hate cats (which I've been accused of), here are some recent ways I've bonded with Underdog and Spork's cats in the last year by talking to them:

I am going to end you.

I know your toy doesn't work, but you tore the head off the mouse. It's dead now. It's an ex-mouse.

Yes, I got up from the desk chair. That doesn't mean I'm going to feed you every time.

Who wants a kick?

Very nice. I don't want the half of a mouse you left on the doormat.

Very nice. I don't want the half of a chipmunk on the doormat.

Very nice. I'm not sure what those tiny internal organs are, but I don't want them, either.

Get off me, you freak.

So, how many stories can you fall from and still land on your feet? This many?

Shut up!

Hear that high lonesome howl? Want to go out and play with the coyotes?

Move. Now.

Go play with Underdog. She likes you.

Hey, look, I can open the door to the outside! I have opposable thumbs. Learn to evolve, dude.

Let's play car tag!

Hairball. Thanks.

Get in! [motions to open clothes dryer]

Get in! [motions to open oven after the damned cat tangles into my legs while trying to put a pizza into a 500-degree oven]

There you go—outside! Don't forget to write!

Look, stop torturing it and just kill it so I can throw it into the field.

And one I said to Underdog today, when she chased off one of the cats sunning itself in the drive as I revved the engine on the XTerra:

You can't do that! It's cheating! It's like a fan leaning over the left-field wall and grabbing the ball before the left-fielder could catch it!

[For the record, I don't physically abuse the cats. And I say all the above with really nice tone in my voice. About half the time.]