I don’t hate cats – or any animal, for that matter – but I’m not what you would call a cat person. For instance, I wouldn’t eat a cat, which I guess means that cats rank higher than cows and chickens – good for them, but I also don’t seek out cat companionship.
When the guys across the street go out of town, I’m happy to provide some cat supervision because they’re good neighbors. But I don’t look forward to any cat-Crystal time. That’s mostly the cat’s fault. He’s 18 years old and bitchy as hell. The last time I watched him, they told me not to feel bad if he died while they were out of town and to just wrap him up and put him in the freezer until they got back. Great. Well they’re out of town again, so this morning I resumed cat duties. After calling for the kitty (his name is Gringo) while scooping out cat turds, I began to get worried when there was no bitchy reply. I checked all over their house for the creature. He was not in any of his usual hidey holes, so of course I assumed the cat was dead. It didn’t smell like death in the house – it kinda smelled like potpourri. I finally found the cat hiding in the second bedroom, and I’m pretty sure he was laughing at me. The little bastard.