Wednesday, September 02, 2009

The Worst Sort Of Girlfriend

You know those females that you look at from afar and wonder how they have gotten to this point in their lives without having someone grab them by the scruff of the neck and shake the shit out of them?

The kind that are so self absorbed that the very earth that they walk on does not exist when they are not present?

Nations rise and fall, humans are born and slaughtered, man's indifference to man plays out on the stage of the world but DAMNIT! If they can't find the exact a) shade of lipstick b) shoes c) purse or d) catnip mouse, everything else is MOOT!

Yes, I did say catnip mouse.

Do you think I'm talking about a human female? No. I'm talking about my female cat who I sarcastically refer to as "Golem".

She's been here the longest among the pets in the house. Twelve years ago she and her brother came to live with us. Her brother is no longer here and for a few glorious years, she was the queen of the castle. She was pleasant and amusing at times.

Then came one dog.

Then came another dog.

Then came the ambiguously gay boy cat (who I should totally bring to an event at Pride this weekend. He would be hailed as a god).

With each successive animal, she has gotten crabbier and crabbier. She hates you. She hates you because you breathe oxygen. She hates you because you refuse to acknowledge that at one time, SHE WAS THE QUEEN AROUND HERE.

She's like Betty Davis on a bender.

Except, that is, when she decides that she will grace you with her presence. This means that whatever you are doing, DROP IT NOw BECAUSE ROYALTY IS IN THE ROOM!

You are not allowed to sit at the computer without her at your feet, constantly trying to get onto your lap and then into your face and onto your keyboard. It doesn't matter how many times you brush her aside, she just keeps trying. It gives me flashbacks to "dating" in middle school.

Early morning? Middle of the night? Any exposed part of the body that was foolishly left out above the covers will be licked, bit, and cajoled into an ear scratch. MUSTN'T KEEP HER MAJESTY WAITING!

And god help the poor human who is enduring this demand for attention if one of the lesser pets happen to jump onto the bed during this occurrence, for example, a Corgi perhaps. The queen will flip tits if she is gnawing on the top of the human's head, demanding reverence, and suddenly a dog appears practically on top of her. On top of the human's head as well.

That's when the proverbial cat fight begins. It's Betty Davis and Joan Crawford all rolled into one, screaming and hissing while they slap the crap out of the poor retarded child that just happened to stumble into this scenario.

All on top of my head.

I will never...never...need to rely upon an alarm clock.

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