Yes, our adorable, 11-year-old bundle of purrs and kitty hugs. The way he glares at you while lounging superiorly on the kitchen counter — the same one we prepare food on, and that he rubs his butt on — I know, is just so precious. But I assure you, he sucks.
I’ve always had kind of a love/hate relationship with Andy Cat. I adopted him when he was about a year old. I was living on my own for the first time out of college, and wanted a companion, but I knew I couldn’t have a dog because I couldn’t even pay a phone bill or remember to call my mom at least once every three days, so how would I look after a creature who was basically one step away from a baby? As luck would have it, the same day I launched my kitten search, a coworker told me her friend had to get rid of her cat.
I named him Andy, after Warhol.
OK, now, I admit, there were times I treated him poorly. I never abused him or left his declawed self outside to lamely fend for himself, but I’ve never been awesome at changing litter, and there was a period of a few years way back when when I was going through a lot of shitty stuff and I may have frequently run out of cat food and so filled his bowl with cat treats, instead. WHATEVER, I was in my 20’s.
So I vowed to make my amends by letting him cuddle up to me and knead my arm/boob/whatever. And it is kind of precious, that he’s the equivalent of a 70-year-old man and still behaves like a kitten.
But he can be a total bastard, too.
Like the other morning, when I was cuddling in bed with The Po Pup, waiting for Mister Mister to come back from his morning bagel trip. It was too perfect, she was curled up on Mister Mister’s pillow, right close to me, yes with her butt in my face, but still, I could curl around her and just be content.
And then I hear a plop behind me, and a purr, and a crash, and a splat, and a loud plop and a scamper. And I know in that moment that he has totally fucking tried to drink my water way down at the bottom of my water glass, and in the process, knocked the damn thing over.
(Mister Mister’s response: “You shouldn’t have it there.” My response: “I’M PREGNANT, ASSHOLE.” Pretty much my response to everything nowadays.)
I whirled around to grab my phone in case he’d spilled anything on there. He hadn’t. He’d spilled it behind the whole bed.
So I had to truck my sore ass out of bed, move the damn bed, and wipe behind it to ensure whatever bad things would happen from behind-the-bed-sogginess, didn’t happen.
And of course The Po Pup moved.
No more cuddling.
He also does stuff like jump on our game board when I’m trying to win Trivial Pursuit, and steal raw chicken off my cutting board and cooked beef from my sautee pan. He’s always running underfoot like he wants to trip me and kill me. He spreads out in the middle of the floor and stares at you like, “This is my house, bitch, why are you even here? P.S., you’re fat.” And he gives you “love bites,” which means he sidles up to you, purring, and attempts to bite a hunk of flesh from your body, still purring.
I’ve really started to hate him.
Which kind of makes me sad.
The Po Pup is above hate. You could NEVER despise her. She could poop in the middle of our rug — which she did, once — and you would hug her and tell it it was OK. You would invite her to poop anytime. In fact, you’d join her in pooping. She’s that adorable and loving and helpless. She’s a rescue dog and rarely ever does a terrible thing. So I know, or at least desperately hope, that when Bean makes his arrival in the world, I could never resent her presence or the attention she demands while I try to take care of a newborn.
But Andy Cat? I could totally see imploring Mister Mister to let me send him to the pound in the baby’s first week home.
If he can even stand being around the baby, which is doubtful. He hates loud things.
(The cat, not my husband.)
So I’m vowing to hate my cat less. I even gave him some chicken yesterday — though I made sure it was cooked, because I really don’t want to clean the product of feline salmonella from my house.
(If that’s even a thing.)
Remember, I have some amends to make for forcing him to choke down a bowl full of fatty cat treats instead of his treasured, nutritious Meow Mix.
And for giving him Meow Mix while we feed the dog $40 pet store food.
And for moving all his shit out of the nursery because we need to put a brand-new, loud human in there.
I’m sorry, Andy Cat. I love you.