First, I feel it obligatory to offer an apology. I'm sorry that I offer absolutely no regularity in my posting schedule. I'm sorry that I've been working my little rump off for a company that doesn't care about me. I'm sorry that my immune system has temporarily failed so I'm battling a terrible cold. And I'm sorry that people are so jealous of me. But I can't help it that I'm popular. And I don't want to be punished for being well-liked.
Plagiarism of movie scripts aside, I have come with a warning. As I was fervently reading books no one cares about and writing essays no one will read, I came across a worrisome fact: my cat hates me. Now, my BFF Katie will tell you all that we don't know if animals have emotions or feel pain--we only know that they react to stimuli. But I write today to tell you that I think my cat has emotions, and if he continues to act on them, he probably will feel pain. Unless he kills me first.
Day One:
I'm huddled up on my couch, burrito-d in a blanket as it has just begun to rain outside. My eyes are fervently darting across the page as I attempt to finish the last chapter before I have to get ready for work. None of the prose is sinking in, but it doesn't matter. As long as my coffee-stained bookmark rests at the end of the assigned section, I'll have done my homework. I'm about fifteen pages from the end when my cat leaps onto the arm of the couch, right behind my head.
I ignore him.
He butts me with his head.
I turn the page.
He sticks a cold, slimy, wet nose in my ear, giving me (what I assume, by cat standards) a wet willy.
My fixed stare is torn from my book momentarily while I shout, "Yacko!" at him. Yacko does not flinch. He simply stares back.
A little fazed, I revert my attention to the final pages of chapter six and finish my reading. It is five o'clock, which gives me just enough time to do my hair and touch up my makeup before leaving for work. Feeling in no mood to impress customers I don't care about, I redo my eyeliner and pile my hair atop my head in some sort of samurai topknot. The fashion-conscious might refer to it as a "Ballerina Bun," but I'm Asian, and samurais are cooler
I plop back onto the couch to pack something to eat while I stand behind the register and stare at people messing up my folded cardigans when Yacko jumps back up onto the arm to sit next to me. I ignore those impatient green eyes boring into my soul, for if you look him in the eye, all of your weaknesses are revealed. Or that's how he makes it seem, anyway. He starts sniffing at the topknot flopping back and forth as I stuff as many pretzels that can possibly fit into a zipblock bag. Then he bites my skull.
I jerk my scalp away more out of confusion than pain, and the thick strand of hair still caught between his teeth comes out of the bun. But I don't have time to fix it now; I must run out the door or else I'll be late for work (God forbid).
Examining my hair in the small vanity mirror on my sun visor in my car, I see that Yacko has been successful in messing up my hairdo. And not in that cute oh-I-just-threw-my-hair-up-like-this-and-it-still-looks-awesome way. Nope. I look like a nine-year-old who wanted to do her own hair for picture day. That's not very descriptive. It looks bad. That's all you need to know.
I fix it until the incessant honking behind me tells me the light has changed...
Days Two-Five:
I can't sleep.
Yacko has been outside my door meowing for the last three hours. Not constantly--I could sleep through that. Just off and on every twenty minutes until either I or Dad get up and tell him to shut up.
At around four-thirty these nights, I'll get up and throw a shoe at him. If I'm lucky, I'll get one with a spiky heel one of these nights.But I have too many shoes. Maybe I'll go through them in the morning. But probably not.
Recently, he's discovered that meowing may be harmful to his health, so he takes to scratching in his litter box. Dad is okay with this change, for his room does not share a common wall with the bathroom that houses the litter box.
He knows I can't possibly punish him for going to the bathroom.
But he's not going to the bathroom.
When I wake up in the mornings, the litter dust is just beginning to settle, and my bathroom still reeks of cat urine. Sometimes I feel like I smell the same.I wonder if that cute boy in my music class thinks so too... Then again, what boy is into cat-bitten hairdos and an intense aroma of ammonia?
Day Seven:
Today, that little bastard won't stop attacking my ankles and wrists. My biology professor asks if everything is alright when he spots the four, evenly spaced cuts slicing down my wrists. I tell him my cat has been attacking me, and he laughs and so do I, but on the inside, I'm crying.
Day Thirteen:
I wake up from a nap realizing that my head is unusually hot and I can't breathe. I wonder if this is what death feels like, until I realize that Yacko is sitting on my head bathing himself.
Day Eighteen:
My English essay has a large, yellow spot on it and smells like cat pee.
Day Twenty-Six:
As I clean up three separate piles of barf--the trademark for which Yacko has earned his name--he sits next to me and meows until I give him more food. After he engorges himself, he promptly barfs it all back up again.
Day Thirty:
He no longer sleeps when I am home. I constantly look up to see him staring at me with those calculating green eyes. Sometimes he licks his lips.
This concludes the log of my observations from my devil-cat.
Luckily he's not sitting on the keyboard tonightadhgf;lk
