Not everybody knows that, before we were married, Mr. Right-Click’s online moniker was The Dirty Rotten Cat Lover. This is because my husband is a dirty rotten cat lover and if you know a dirty rotten cat lover, then I don’t care what they’ve told you: they are just not like the rest of us.
I’m a dog lover — I make no bones about it: cats are fine, but I prefer dogs. You know where you stand with dogs. Cats make you work for it, and frankly, I don’t have time for that crap. Their food stinks, they are all weird about water (sometimes they like it, and then other times they get all Wicked Witch of the East about it), and at any moment they might just decide to open up one of your veins with a claw and there really isn’t anything you can do about it (except hope that they don’t). Don’t get me started on trying to make the bed with the cats around. Fuck that. Plus, every single one of the cats I’ve known has had some bizarre quirk that just doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. Like my old cat, Ryan, would react to eating Nacho Cheese Doritos as if they contained crystal methamphetamine. What’s that about?
At present, we only have cats at the Right-Click household because: 1) Mr. Right-Click is a dirty rotten cat lover; and 2) one day my Golden Retriever, Sidney, tried to bite off Mini’s face. So now Sidney and her unresolved food aggression live at my mom’s house and we have two cats that are the size of goddamn raccoons, Edie and Wubbzy/Chum-Chum/Moishe, who live with us and who take the stinkiest raccoon-sized poops I’ve ever encountered in my life. There are two litter boxes in my house and I’m constantly scooping them out, sweeping up around the poop boxes, and disinfecting the general areas with Clorox wipes (not a paid placement). Then, the second that I’m finished with this disgusting and infuriating twice to thrice daily procedure, one or the other of them will get into the box I’ve just cleaned, and rechristen it with their raccoon-sized poops. And the cycle continues. There’s a whole lot more that goes into the whole poop saga with the cats but I’ve never been much for scatological humor so suffice to say that I’m leaving a lot out here and this is but one-tenth of the drama that Maine Coon poop has caused around the Right-Click household of late. (You’re welcome.)
The latest saga with the cats is that we have to get another goddamn butt fugly cat tree. Because the one we have is a festival of fug that has lived through (counting on fingers) three cats before these two clowns showed up, and since these cats are so big, every time they climb up it’s possible they are going to break it. I’ve always hated this cat tree but Mr. Right-Click has had it from long before we met, so I’ve never been successful at getting rid of it. Now that we are talking about getting another one, it’s my contention that we should at least endeavor to get something tasteful instead of yet another carpeted monstrosity. And before you ask, not having a cat tree in one’s house, when you are a dirty rotten cat lover, is not an option. I spent the morning looking for options, or combinations of options, that are not horribly objectionable to have in my bedroom. Below is what I presented to Mr. Right-Click.
None of which Mr. Right-Click finds suitably “enriching” for the cats. This is what he wants to put in the bedroom.
Which is like, three times as ugly as what we have now, and twice as big. But wait, maybe if you see the video, you’ll be able to appreciate it.
He claims that he “acquiesced” on the choice of what kind of cat we were going to get this time (he wanted a breed that is only like one generation away from the wild — he wanted a half tiger cat, basically, internet!) but he’s not going to choose form over function on something this [cough.] important.
Internet, it’s not that I’m not painfully aware that this is a first world problem. It’s just that . . . they are fucking CATS.