Don’t believe the nonsensical propaganda you read in pop-lit and websites. Your cat is not trying to kill you. There is simply no reliable evidence supporting these presumptive murderous intentions.
I don’t dispute that if you were to suddenly drop dead, your feline companion would contract a severe case of indifference; however, it is extraordinarily improbable that your bucket will be kicked by a four-legged degenerate.
How do I know your cat wants you alive? Because through the logic of inductive reasoning (a methodology used by prominent, modern thinkers such as Dinesh D’Souza, Louie Gohmert, and Monty Python), I have discovered that domesticated cats feed on negative emotions. If you take issue with this theory, ask yourself why cats maul your lovingly-offered hand but never puncture a major artery or why they trip you only in the absence of sharp objects on which to impale your head. I’ll tell you why; because the pain and suffering they produce is part of their nutritious, balanced diet.
I have constructed a feline species’ food pyramid for the visual learners:
Take my five captive felines, for example. When they’re not eating or sleeping, they are studying Eli Roth movies after I go to bed. During the day, they experiment with my threshold of pain by gripping my hand with their claws and kicking at it with their back legs while sinking their teeth into the flesh of my palm. The more I cry in pain, the louder they purr. In case you haven’t noticed, once they acquire a taste of your misery, it is difficult for them to let go.
Recently, Mr. Tiddles and the rest of the clan discovered that inducing psychological anguish is just as satisfying and palatable as physical pain. Two weeks ago, I had just devoted 6 hours and fifteen minutes to thoroughly cleaning my home. This included washing baseboards, vacuuming walls, and steaming all counter tops. My home was a mysophobic haven for only one hour and thirty-seven minutes. That is all the time required for a gang of cats to contaminate counters with a stamp of their dirty buttholes, project cat toys from their box as if the result from a small explosion, poop hair-turds from their mouths, and blanket the furniture with fur. As this disaster unfolded, I felt increasingly dismal.
It was then that I noticed a negative correlation between my despondency and their disposition. Blind Murphy vigorously tossed around his stuffed bird with playful glee. Mr. Tiddles raced from one end of the house to the other. Zoe appeared almost drunk with happiness. I, however, sat motionless on the sofa as I helplessly watched my hours of labor become undone in minutes.
So heed this warning. If your heathen appears malnourished, your household is too merry to sustain its life. And if you’re sad, don’t be fooled by the cat that jumps into your lap or rubs its head on your leg because it’s not comforting you; it’s feeding off you. These cuddly creatures feast on your cries of pain as well as your sadness and lap up your sweet, sweet tears for dessert.