She may look sweet but a. she is making a racket, and b. she is super mean.

She may look sweet but a. she is making a racket, and b. she is super mean.

She sounds like she is being deflated one contraction at a time. Psst. Psst. Like a secret hissing inner tube. I look at her amazed that she has any volume left at all. And that 11 pounds can make SO much noise. Then remember that she is not filled with air. But piss. And vinegar.

We have been battling all night. For pillow space, covers, who is on top, it is our nightly dance. I grumble but feel even more annoyed when Steve takes the logical approach and just shoves her off the bed. As many hours as I spend here, she spends more and it feels both overly aggressive and underly effective to remove her. Then she needs to jump back up and find her spot again. With the pointy bits all over my hip or head or chest. She is slow to settle and often will perch like a chicken in the upper most spot. Refusing to commit, while still refusing to leave.

If you pet her things are worse. She purrs like a normal cat, but with each stroke she feels the need to stand. So her paws and claws are in you again. And she needs to start all over to settle down, such as she settles.

She has had this cold through the winter, which started in October, and despite antibiotic shots and some other less medical intervention it is as persistent as she is. Psst. Psst. The worst is when she sneezes directly into my face from her resting spot on my neck. How can she have so much saliva? Missing lips as she is her mouth just doesn’t seem moist. Her tongue rough and dry as she tries to remove my lotion. How can she deliver a kitty shower from that mouth?

He hair is sneaky stuff. It is so soft on her body and pokey like a needle removed from it. It ends in eye corners, stuck to lips, and has perpetuated the ban of black fleece in our house.

When we had four cats and two dogs she was the least favorite pet. I mean, really the bottom of the heap. She stalked through the house hissing miserably at any other furry creature who entered the room with her. Slanty eyed and cruel she would attack the big lumpy cat with swift claw filled swipes. He is scarred in 3/4 part due to her efforts. He approaches her now only when she is in mid hack. He seems to know that she wont have the coordination to attack. He sniffs her as she tries to remove her organs onto our kitchen floor. Then circles wide around her. As soon as she recovers her composure he will be a target, and he doesn’t move very quickly.

It is his peeing that has elevated her status. Don’t get me wrong, she pees too. But only on Steve’s hockey bag. This is hard to argue with. For those of you that don’t get to spend time with 20 year old hockey equipment brought in from the cold 3x/ week to delicately scent your home with the smell of decomposition I would probably switch lives with you. In a house of male beasts I feel she is on my team. She doesn’t think the bag belongs. She thinks it reeks. She will use her built in air freshener to change the status.

Cat pee may smell worse than hockey stink (right?) but I appreciate her effort. Its the best she can manage with no thumbs, no pockets, standing 5 inches tall and only having 20 minutes a day out of bed. It is really remarkable what she can accomplish.

The other lumpy cat yowls and pees and head butts and is just generally unrelentingly annoying. So by the default of death and poor manners she is my favorite now. I keep telling Steve how much her personality has changed. How she is not a bitch. Except literally. He raises an eyebrow as if to say “its all relative, you crazy cat lady.”

I talk a big game, calculating and recalculating how old these cats are. Counting down to their death, knowing that a life without cat hair, cat yowling, cat fighting, and cat peeing will be easier in a way. I know it is total crap. As soon as one of these things goes I am going to get another cat. It is vital that I have one.

I cant be the creature in our house that spends the most time in bed. Although I guess the boys will be teenagers soon.

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Anna Rosenblum Palmer is a freelance writer based in Denver, CO. She writes about sex, parenting, cat pee, bi-polar disorder and the NFL; all things inextricably intertwined with her mental health. In her free time she teaches her boys creative swear words, seeks the last missing puzzle piece and thinks deeply about how she is not exercising. Her writing can be found on Babble, Parent.co, Great Moments in Parenting, Ravishly, Good Men Project, Sammiches and Psych Meds, Playpen, Crazy Good Parent, and YourTango. She also does a fair amount of navel gazing on her own blog at annarosenblumpalmer.com.

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