What Your Pets Do Behind Your Back

         Do you ever wonder that your pets get up to when you’re away from home?

I have my suspicions.

My cat, Tango, is a secretive little creature, as are most cats.  However, mine is not only secretive but, I think, also possessed by demons.

Oh, she’s good at pretending to be a docile little house cat, but lately, upon returning home from work, I’ve noticed cigarette burns in the upholstery, and I don’t smoke in the living room.  There are also rolling papers and catnip scattered everywhere, and the water and food dishes are both empty.  Add to that the paw prints of varying sizes all over the handle on the refrigerator door, and it doesn’t take Stephen Hawking to put it all together.

She has parties with what appears to be (if detritus is any indication) about sixty other cats!

Observing my look of irritation upon my arrival in the den of iniquity that used to be my home, she puts on her most innocent expression and summons up a mournful little “mew.”  This translates to:  “A whole crowd of bandits broke in here and messed up the place and ate all my food and drank all my water, and I was so scared I went and hid, and where were you, anyway?”

“I am not fooled, Tango,” I said, bending down to wipe up the 47 barfed-up hairballs that dotted my oriental carpet.

 “Mew,” she replied.  This translates to:  “No, no!  Those hairballs are mine!  If you brushed me more than three times a day, I wouldn’t be having that problem!  It’s all your fault!”

I looked at her in disgust.  “You know, you can’t go on like this, Tango -- having wild parties all day, and eating catnip like it’s cat food!  You’re going to damage your health, not to mention the woodwork,” I said, indicating a newel post that had been clawed so much it was now a newel toothpick.

“Mew,” she shot back.  This translates to:  “Yeah, yeah, get off my back.  I’m four years old, and I can do what I want.  I don’t need your permission!  Pardon me for living!”

“And, Tango, there have been complaints from the neighbors about loud music during the day.”

“Mew.”  Translated:  “Geez, what CAN I do?!  Am I breathing too loudly for you and your sainted neighbors?  Do you have any idea how boring it is all day around here?  And those toys you give me?  What a joke!  Why don’t you bring home a live mouse once in a while, Ms. Big Shot Writer?”

“And just look at your litter box!  What a mess!  This litter was fresh this morning and now it has about 20 pounds of poop in it!”

“Mew.”  Translated:  “If you’d buy me some decent food, my furry little colon wouldn’t be acting like a Play-Doh Fun Factory, moron!”

Sighing, I stood and threw away the last hairball.  If you leave your cat alone during the day, I strongly advise you to lock up the milk!

 

CAT-ASTROPHE!

              I made the grave error last night of running out of my cat’s (a/k/a “Her Imperial Majesty’s”) favorite flavor of tinned cat food.

 For those of you who aren’t owned by a cat, this doesn’t sound like a big deal.  You think (erroneously) that, like a dog, if a cat is hungry, it will eat whatever you give it.

 To quote my cat (if I’m interpreting her dirty looks correctly), “I don’t THINK so, Bitch!”

Tango has this thing for Fancy Feast Salmon.  It’s all she eats.  After three days in a row of the stuff, I’d be gnawing the bark off trees instead, but she’s perfectly happy with it, day after day.

 Stopping at the grocery store on the way home, I remembered that she needed more Fancy Feast Salmon, so I went to the appropriate aisle and (fade in ominous chord) THEY WERE OUT OF IT!  Tiny beads of perspiration formed on my brow, and I began to hyperventilate.  Desperately, I searched through the tins at the back, hoping against hope that there would be just one dusty little tin that someone had overlooked.

 Nada.

 So, I tried to think like a cat, and picked out a couple of tins of the most disgusting-sounding and stinkiest types of food I could locate.  I finally settled on a tin of mouse knuckles, goat lips, and fish heads, all chopped up in a gay combination; and a tin of pureed filter organs from, I think, six different varieties of wildebeest.

Though cats can’t read, they have unequalled comparison skills, and she was immediately onto my game.  Deciding to ignore the fact that, where Tango spits, grass never grows, I dished up the mouse knuckles.

I’m here to tell you that I have never smelled anything remotely like that cat food this side of Elizabeth, New Jersey.  My eyes watered.  I broke out in a strange rash.  All my hair fell out at once.

 I scraped the ghastly stuff into her dish, and threw away the melted spoon.  She glared at the disgraceful mess, then at me, then at her dish again.  The last time I looked, she had dragged it to her litter box and was in the process of burying it.

After that, she went to the phone and speed-dialed her lawyer.

I think she’s going to sue me. 

 Any defense lawyers out there willing to take on a cat in court?