My Rescue Cat Now Demands a Boyfriend
The saga of Houdi continues relentlessly
Houdini has a list of complaints. Unbelievable.
I am in the kitchen minding my own business, making my morning coffee when she jumps up to the counter and stares at me. The usual.
My standard reaction is to ignore her. Any other cat would either lick themselves, cozy up or bump their heads against their human. Not Houdini.
She stares me to death until I go:
”What?!?”
“Not much. I was wondering if it ever occurred to you that maybe sometimes a cat needs to have some fun too. Why do you guys get to have it all?”
“That’s interesting, Houdi (her new nickname). I thought you couldn’t possibly have any more fun than living here, torturing me daily.”
“Really?? Well, you thought wrong. You’re boring as all get out; you feed me the same ole, same ole since who knows when. The toys are all falling apart, and soon it’ll be Daylight Savings Time. Changing the clocks again. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. So no, I sure can’t call that having ‘fun’ now, would you?
Calmly, I answered, “Yes, your majesty. What do you want me to do?”
“Easy peasy. A boyfriend would be nice!” — she retorted excitedly.
“At least I’d have some company to tumble and roll with, chase each other, wrestle. All that you humans miss, since everything you do, you do it standing. When was the last time you stalked a lover lying flat on the ground and then launched at her?”
“No, that I don’t do, that’s right. We don’t use the floor as a playground; it’s dusty and usually dirty with microbes or bacteria.” — I said affirmatively.
“Hahahaha! That’s because You don’t have any fur! Your creator seemed to have forgotten an important detail. Hahaha!
“Oh, please…” I sighed.
“Poor humans, afraid of microscopic bugs. Getting antibiotics for this, probiotics for that. And still, running to the doctor when you have a cold. A cold!”
“It’s more complicated than that, Houdi. We are much bigger. Our BMI has a lot to do with our health. Our organs are much larger. Everything is different when one is bipedal.”
“Fine, go bipedal me a boyfriend and stop trying to distract the conversation.”
“I’m not… — ugh! never mind.”
“But I’m not getting another cat in here, you are enough trouble as it is.”
“No, sir. Think again. I heard you telling your friends I’m the best thing that ever happened to you, so…”
“Yeah, that was then, when you weren’t such a pain in the ass and so gudhdamn demanding.” — I said, trying to soften the tone with a smirk.
“Ha! — You wouldn’t last a week without me! Now, go get me that boy! “
“After all, I don’t want a husband. Just a playmate; then, when I’m done, you can’t throw him out the window for all I care.”
“Jesus! That’s not nice. How can you even think that way?”
“We land on our feet, mister, haven’t you heard? And we have, what is it, 7 lives?…Besides, I was joking.”
“Nine. That’s a colloquialism, anyway.”
“Huh? …A what??
Then, a nice pause of divine silence.
Until…
“Well. I can’t wait forever. If you don’t get me a playing boyfriend, I will run away and find one myself. But I might get rabies, y’know?”
I have to admit that got me thinking. Both of those stunts would cause me a severe problem. Both of those instances will be enough to ruin my day, my week, or my life. I’d die if anything happened to her.
It’s beginning to look like she got me again.
Would I ever get a win with Houdi? Once maybe?
And Tony Robbins lied. He promised me that his book and techniques would solve my problem of having a pet constantly beating me with her cat logic.
Instead, it made it worse. I’m a walking target practice.
But I have a plan…
