Posted on October 26, 2011
I really was hoping to avoid discussion of my cats. I don’t want paint myself as a crazy cat lady. By my official, jen-jen sanctioned definition you are not a crazy cat lady unless you have more than one cat and live alone. I most certainly do not live alone, well ok, except for those stretches when my husband is gone for work. But I definitely do not have cat furniture. So look at me, clearly a well adjusted, not crazy, well within the normal realms of feline stewardship, cat owner.
So I admit it, I have two cats, but only one of which is evil. Her name is Sacha. I should have known from the start she was the devil brought to this world to torture me. She hated me from the second she laid her eyes on me. My husband quickly surmised that her disgust with my existence is based on religious tensions.
His theory is that Sacha, being half Persian, is really a Muslim extremist who we plucked from a sleeper cell. She simply cannot stand to be adopted by a little Jew like me. How can she wage jihad when I am trying to spoon feed her chicken soup and have her wear my kitten sized yarmulke (yes I do have one).
But he has it all wrong. Its way simpler than that. As much as she hates me, she loves the husband. I am her competition. And in her life-long quest to gain his affection I must be destroyed. And despite the 8 years we have now lived together, she still stares at me with the same putrid hatred. Anyone who has spent a bit of time with her has seen the look. The best way I can describe it is the evil monkey from Family Guy. The husband and I can be sharing a laugh and I can see her in the corner of my eye, observing me, staring at me, thinking, “just you wait bitch!”
Now she has made several attempts at my life, but I don’t want to make this into a trial. Because, in all honesty, just as much as she hates me I am desperate for her regard. Like a silly 14yr old girl all I want is to be her BFF. Love me Sacha, love me, I’ll do anything!
My poor constitution the past few months has not pardoned me from her disgust. If anything it has given her new opportunities to display her superiority. While she normally appears disappointed whenever I enter a room, she now follows me into the restroom to watch me heave. She sits, perched on the tub observing my efforts with her evil monkey expression, surely thinking “ugh, you’re doing it wrong…again”. Likewise she does daily inspections of my vomit bowl, and then looks at me with disdain as if she was saying “gross, if it were me that bowl would be full of glitter and rainbows.”