In case you’re wondering why I still consider myself a reluctant cat owner:

Fucking cat.

To most, a cat owner is often stereotyped as being asocial or a solitudinarian. To these shallow cretins, people with cats are as pestiferous as the agoraphobic, online gamers, and those with an addiction to porn so severe it makes God ashamed for inventing sex organs. But 87% of you who are reading this know the truth: cat owners can be just as social as any average person; therefore, they bear just as much responsibility for preventing the spread of COVID-19 through social distancing as you.

But cat owners have an advantage, a built in defense against socialization that 74.6% of households lack: the combination of a lap and an entitled cat.

Because of my cavus feet, I sat in a narrow waiting room of my ortho’s office this morning. I became anxious for the nurse to announce my name because the space embodied frowzy. The fluorescents in the ceiling cast a sickly, greenish tint onto the cheap, beadboard-panel walls. The dull, laminate floor tiles conveyed a history of abuse, marred by years of scuffs and scratches. The worn and frayed cushioning of the benches recalled a color palette from the Brady-era, indicating decades of negligence in upgrading the lobby furniture. There’s no telling how many stranger farts those passé cushions absorbed over the decades, and this troubled me.

To distract my attention, I pondered a recently-viewed episode of a documentary series about how our brain paints a picture of reality based on learned sensory clues such as shadows, light, and depth. What I found fascinating, though, is how the mind can be tricked into overlooking something right before your eyes until it is pointed out to you such as a spelling error or a stain or a series of poor life choices that result in a lengthy era of multiple cat adoptions.

His foster name was Joshua. Not very clever, but I suppose if you were tasked with naming half a dozen new cats a day like the good people at Memphis Pets Alive, your well of memorable names would run dry, too. If it were up to me, I’d open a random page of the dictionary, close my eyes, and point. Some potential adopters may disapprove, but let’s be honest; you’d never forget a name like Froth, Pusillanimity, Nudie, or Hepaticocholangiogastrostomy.

Shortly after publishing last week’s entry, I realized that I haven’t properly introduced the new additions to our family. This is unusual for me since my favorite topics are myself and my cats. So let me remedy that by introducing you to the first of two of our most recently acquired heathens.

In August of 2018, my husband and I stopped by the pet store because our three remaining wallet leeches required food. I assume you’ve read at least one news article about a cat (or cats) showing respect for their neglected, deceased caregiver by snacking on their cadaver. I have, and it’s this fear that drives me to the pet store every week to stock up on sustenance so they won’t eat me while I sleep. The next time your cats gather at your feet and meow as you prepare their breakfast, know that they aren’t vocalizing their gratitude or anticipation. They’re telling you that you’re lucky you woke up to feed them when you did.

I believe I would get more writing done if the cats weren’t such slobs; of course, having five of them doesn’t help the floors get any cleaner.

Because of Predator Face’s hare lip and deviated septum, he frequently sneezes large wads of snot onto the walls and furniture. I’m not sure if any of you have had to clean up your cat’s phlegm. If you have, then you may have also be wondering why it hasn’t been marketed as an adhesive. We’re talking a military-grade glue.