A Question About Cats

Not sure what the question is, but the answer is yes. The answer is always yes. Yes, cats are the spawn of satan. They are the worst. Despite many cat lovers trying to justify their love for what I’m sure will be the pet of choice in hell, the discussion is over. They are awful. And don’t respond with all the positives of cats. The only positive is that they eventually die.

I believe cats were actually the animal that satan inhabited when he tempted Eve. Look at how a cat moves around. Does it not resemble a snake with legs? Adam was too distracted to get a good look at what it was, and retold his story wrong. I don’t blame him. He had a naked woman just walking around. You know she had a rockin’ bod. Her diet consisted of fresh everything. She was Paleo before it was cool. Crossfitters should have a shrine to her.

Back to the cats (see how easy it is to be distracted by a naked woman), I just don’t understand them. They serve no purpose. They’re not a loving animal. Humans are a huge inconvenience to them. They excrete waste inside your house. Despite the CIA’s best effort to find an actual use for these aloof felines, they failed miserably. And if our government thinks it’s a waste of money, well, there is no redeeming quality, because they will waste money on anything.

Where does this hatred come from you ask? This morning, I emptied a sandbox that stray cats had been using as a lavatory. This opened a portal to rage that I can rarely recall feeling. All my memories of cats flooded back to me. They obviously weren’t pleasant.

Childhood Sandbox

My neighbors growing up were cat people. I would say cat owners, but that implies some responsibility on their part. The cats were allowed to roam free and the world was their oyster. My sandbox was their toilet. Many a sandcastle was ruined by discovering what surprises these awful animals left me. This could’ve been me, if my sandcastle sculpturing growth hadn’t been stunted by cat poo and urine.

Father’s Boat

My Pops has a few inanimate objects that he loves. His 1964 Chris Craft is one of those things. Many hours were spent working on it. Many times being stranded out on the lake with the engine cover up while he worked on it. A beam in our barn fell on it and he definitely shed some tears. He loved that boat.

Remember those cat people neighbors? Again, they allowed their awful animals to freely inhabit whatever environment they chose and that included my dad’s classic boat. Upholstery that had survived three children, didn’t stand a chance against a half dozen cats. Over a thousand dollars of damage. My dad was found weeks later huddled in a corner, rocking, and mumbling something about Garfield being the only good cat. I assume it was his love of lasagna that made him okay to my dad.

These memories are just a snippet my completely irrational, yet undeniably justifiable disdain for cats. As I easily and effortlessly flipped a sandbox filled with over 400 lbs of sand (no big deal), my son protested. I said,”Grant, I’m not going to let you play in poo.” His response,”I love to play in poo. It’s my favorite thing to do.” That quickly became a song, thus furthering my point that cats are bad. They affect children’s brains and make them want to play in poo.

I’m not saying they can’t serve any purpose, but we need to explore options more thoroughly, because they aren’t cutting it as domesticated animals. Testing of makeup and experimental drugs gets my vote. Let them serve mankind the only way they know how: by being one step above a cadaver.

Nail in the coffin: They are the mascot for the athletic team loosely affiliated with the university that resides in Lexington.

Cats are the worst.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s