Stupid cat.

Stupid, goddamn cat.

There’s a reason why I hate him so, I’m sure of it. His hair is long and dirty for a cat’s and he sheds all over the damn place all the damn time and seems to think every inch under the sun is fair game to sleep, piss and cough up fur balls on. He’s old and stupid; he’s ugly and makes a mess out of everything. Anyone with common sense would be annoyed with him.

But just a minute ago, I realized why I truly hate him.

He jumped on my parent’s bed, which is situated right behind the computer desk. Being on the computer nearly twenty four-seven, I immediately spotted him. He’s not allowed on the bed, certainly not right on the damn pillow. So I tried to chase him off. But he’s such a stupid, stubborn cat. He wouldn’t budge, no matter how much I yelled. So I tried force, instead.

First I picked up a half full bottle of water and tried nudging him off with that. No use. Then I took a small contour pillow and hit him with that. He wouldn’t move. I hit him again, harder this time. He still refused. Finally, I hit him again, and this time, I got a response. He made… He made this noise. A noise of pain and discomfort that I just can’t explain well enough.

But it made me realize, only then, how very old and tired and in pain he truly was. It wasn’t like hitting a stupid old cat that refuses to get off the bed he’s not allowed on; it was like hitting an old man. A frail, old, human man.

I tried once more to hit him, this time with a softer pillow, but my heart wasn’t in it. I noticed this disgusting piece of waxy gunk stuck to his fur. He’d been walking around with it stuck to his fur for days, but nobody had bother to cut it off because it didn’t seem to bother him. When I reached out to examine it, he flinched away, his eyes narrowing in expectant pain. I felt horrible.

Reluctantly, I got a pair of scissors and cut it off of him. I let him rest on that pillow, even though he’s not allowed to, until I finish writing this.

I know why I truly hate him. He reminds me of the inevitable, that we will all eventually grow old and sick and die like him, and when we do we’ll probably be so much of a bother to others that they won’t want anything to do with us. When someone does help us, they will do so reluctantly and their hearts won’t be in it. We’ll only be half alive, unable to do anything and probably better off dead anyways, but they very people that torture us will keep us alive because they think it’s the right thing to do; to let us die naturally in pain and covered in filth and, worse of all, with no one there to keep us company, because who wants to waste their time on us? We’re old and filthy and useless and a complete nuisance. Just like him.

That’s why I hate him. That stupid cat.

That stupid, old, frail, depressing reminder of a cat.

Fin