I'd like to tell you about my two cats. One is named Snowy, after her off-white-with-splodges-of-grey coat which mildly resembles snow that has been left to its own devices for about a week, and the other is called Harley-Socks-Simba-Thunderbird-Cat (this will be explained later). I am allergic to both of them.
I suppose I should start with a bit of background info. When my family relocated to England, we were forced to leave our pets behind, simply because England is too tiny for 4 cats, 2 cross St Bernard/Boerbuls, numerous fish, some chickens and a monkey which sporadically used our property as a food source and toilet (don't worry, they all had wonderful homes provided - except the monkey. He was pure evil). While I was somewhat relieved that my sinuses would finally get a break from their constant battle with cat spit, my 12 year old sister was very distraught by this separation. She came to the logical conclusion that she could fill the petless void that had consumed her with... well... another pet. I had no problem with this, I just thought it slightly inconsiderate that she actively chose to get the one thing in the world that I am allergic to as her cuddle-object.
After many hours of begging and pleading my sister finally convinced mum (despite my avid protests) that this was a good idea, and the pet store was phoned. Here's where the real fun started: my sister was very insistent upon getting a female cat, for reasons she has constantly avoided stating. The pet store had no issue with this request, as they had just received a delivery of small kittens (or whichever way kittens are supplied) and were sure that they had the perfect female kitty for my sister. After a quick visit to the store my sister absolutely fell in love with the thing, and I might have too had my eyes not been burning. We were advised to wait about a week before collecting it, so that the kitten could... set (or something).
A week later all kitten-raising preparations had been made (sleeping quarters, food stores, a college fund - you know, the usual) and we were on our way to collect it (at this stage the name was still in dispute). Upon our arrival we were informed of a 'slight alteration in plans.' The kitten was not, as the store had originally determined, female. This (aside from confusing me considerably - how exactly does one get that wrong?) sent my sister into a terrible panic. She immediately renounced all ties of affiliation to the poor thing, repulsed by the the idea of it's horrible (and apparently easily missable) penis. Having been assaulted by the profusest of apologies, my sister was directed to another cat, which was assuredly female. The cat had an off-white-with-splodges-of-grey coat which mildly resembled snow that has been left to its own devices for about a week, and like a twelve year old falling in love with a cat, my sister fell in love with it.
But there was an issue. My mother (oft overcome with sentiment and pity) felt sorry for the other cat, the one my sister had rejected. She also found it incredibly cute. Ignoring my observations that we had not prepared for two cats, and that another cat would double the workload and cost of maintenance, she made a spontaneous decision to get the rejected one too. I thought that my sister would be upset by this, but in fact the promise of two cuddle-things just sent her into a high-pitched frenzy of excitement and jumping.
While my mother went to fill out the necessary forms, I decided to observe the new additions to the family. The splodgy cat (which my sister had named Snowy to no objections) was incredibly shy and would not let me near it, but the other cat was soon pretty fond of me. It had jet black furwith white patches on its cute little feet, a white patch on its neck and... well, that's about it really. Aside from that it looks like any other cat.
Mother returned and it was soon time to name the other cat. My sister was stuck between Harley (yes, after the motorbike. No, I don't know why) and Simba (she really, really likes the Lion King), my mother wanted to call it Socks because the white patches on its paws resembled white socks, and I put forth the name Cat because naming a cat is really pointless as it'll never come when you call it anyway. Since we could not decide on a name, someone (and I can't remember who) suggested making a long winded, quadruple-barreled name. And so Harley-Socks-Simba-Cat came to be named. I found this a little unfair however, as the long name kinda defeated the purpose of my short suggestion 'Cat,' so I insisted on getting another go. And so Harley-Socks-Simba-Thunderbird-Cat came to be named (Harley, for short)
It's 5 months, 2 surgeries, 13 dead birds, 4 dead rats, and about £100 million in food, cat entertainment toys and de-worming stuff later and all we have to show for it are two incredibly big cats and a house without any unscratched furniture. It seems that all these cats have really done is attack and eat every living thing within five km, poo all over the house, sharpen their claws on anything that looks expensive, sleep on my face (which gets terribly frustrating, especially so thanks to my allergy) and get sick a lot. The worst thing is that I think they know what they're up to; they know they shouldn't scratch the furniture, or bring in dead birds, or sink their claws into my cheeks, but they also know that they're cute enough to get away with it all. Although I love them to bits because they are the cutest things in the world, I wish that they could be as cute without being so... anarchistic.
This, however, is a fruitless hope, and I have resigned myself to the fact that if I wish to continue appreciating the aesthetic value of these furry feline fiends, I will have to accept all the arrogance, terror and pain that comes with them. But there is also no harm in taking the fullest pleasure from those moments of pure, deserved humiliation; such as yesterday, when Harley took on a peacock - and lost.
I suppose I should start with a bit of background info. When my family relocated to England, we were forced to leave our pets behind, simply because England is too tiny for 4 cats, 2 cross St Bernard/Boerbuls, numerous fish, some chickens and a monkey which sporadically used our property as a food source and toilet (don't worry, they all had wonderful homes provided - except the monkey. He was pure evil). While I was somewhat relieved that my sinuses would finally get a break from their constant battle with cat spit, my 12 year old sister was very distraught by this separation. She came to the logical conclusion that she could fill the petless void that had consumed her with... well... another pet. I had no problem with this, I just thought it slightly inconsiderate that she actively chose to get the one thing in the world that I am allergic to as her cuddle-object.
After many hours of begging and pleading my sister finally convinced mum (despite my avid protests) that this was a good idea, and the pet store was phoned. Here's where the real fun started: my sister was very insistent upon getting a female cat, for reasons she has constantly avoided stating. The pet store had no issue with this request, as they had just received a delivery of small kittens (or whichever way kittens are supplied) and were sure that they had the perfect female kitty for my sister. After a quick visit to the store my sister absolutely fell in love with the thing, and I might have too had my eyes not been burning. We were advised to wait about a week before collecting it, so that the kitten could... set (or something).
A week later all kitten-raising preparations had been made (sleeping quarters, food stores, a college fund - you know, the usual) and we were on our way to collect it (at this stage the name was still in dispute). Upon our arrival we were informed of a 'slight alteration in plans.' The kitten was not, as the store had originally determined, female. This (aside from confusing me considerably - how exactly does one get that wrong?) sent my sister into a terrible panic. She immediately renounced all ties of affiliation to the poor thing, repulsed by the the idea of it's horrible (and apparently easily missable) penis. Having been assaulted by the profusest of apologies, my sister was directed to another cat, which was assuredly female. The cat had an off-white-with-splodges-of-grey coat which mildly resembled snow that has been left to its own devices for about a week, and like a twelve year old falling in love with a cat, my sister fell in love with it.
But there was an issue. My mother (oft overcome with sentiment and pity) felt sorry for the other cat, the one my sister had rejected. She also found it incredibly cute. Ignoring my observations that we had not prepared for two cats, and that another cat would double the workload and cost of maintenance, she made a spontaneous decision to get the rejected one too. I thought that my sister would be upset by this, but in fact the promise of two cuddle-things just sent her into a high-pitched frenzy of excitement and jumping.
While my mother went to fill out the necessary forms, I decided to observe the new additions to the family. The splodgy cat (which my sister had named Snowy to no objections) was incredibly shy and would not let me near it, but the other cat was soon pretty fond of me. It had jet black furwith white patches on its cute little feet, a white patch on its neck and... well, that's about it really. Aside from that it looks like any other cat.
Mother returned and it was soon time to name the other cat. My sister was stuck between Harley (yes, after the motorbike. No, I don't know why) and Simba (she really, really likes the Lion King), my mother wanted to call it Socks because the white patches on its paws resembled white socks, and I put forth the name Cat because naming a cat is really pointless as it'll never come when you call it anyway. Since we could not decide on a name, someone (and I can't remember who) suggested making a long winded, quadruple-barreled name. And so Harley-Socks-Simba-Cat came to be named. I found this a little unfair however, as the long name kinda defeated the purpose of my short suggestion 'Cat,' so I insisted on getting another go. And so Harley-Socks-Simba-Thunderbird-Cat came to be named (Harley, for short)
It's 5 months, 2 surgeries, 13 dead birds, 4 dead rats, and about £100 million in food, cat entertainment toys and de-worming stuff later and all we have to show for it are two incredibly big cats and a house without any unscratched furniture. It seems that all these cats have really done is attack and eat every living thing within five km, poo all over the house, sharpen their claws on anything that looks expensive, sleep on my face (which gets terribly frustrating, especially so thanks to my allergy) and get sick a lot. The worst thing is that I think they know what they're up to; they know they shouldn't scratch the furniture, or bring in dead birds, or sink their claws into my cheeks, but they also know that they're cute enough to get away with it all. Although I love them to bits because they are the cutest things in the world, I wish that they could be as cute without being so... anarchistic.
This, however, is a fruitless hope, and I have resigned myself to the fact that if I wish to continue appreciating the aesthetic value of these furry feline fiends, I will have to accept all the arrogance, terror and pain that comes with them. But there is also no harm in taking the fullest pleasure from those moments of pure, deserved humiliation; such as yesterday, when Harley took on a peacock - and lost.
