Where Do You Stand On Cats?

The answer is their necks.

With all this CV-19 crap going on, I almost forgot how much I hate cats. I was quite discourteously reminded of my hatred of the small feline when one of the many scratty little shitbags successfully attempted, for the millionth time, to invade my garden. He raped and pillaged his way through the nooks, the cracks, and the crevices of my no-access back garden, shat on my lawn, stared me down through the window of my living room, and fled without a care in the world. 

I’m not walking out and picking up some other fucker’s cat’s shit off my lawn. No-sirr-fucking-ee. I waited. I don’t know why, but I kinda just expected the weather to do its thing. I thought the rain would wash away the stench and the wind would flick away the decay, sending it evaporating into the ether, corroding into nothingness like when a child blows a bubble and it pops, all trace of the soap gone forever. Apparently cat shit doesn’t do that.

I stood in the poo when I was cutting the grass the next day, didn’t I. I had to abandon my lawnmower, mid-sesh. I couldn’t return to the scene, the odour was truly offensive. I left the mower wazzing up thin air as it lay on its side screaming to be switched off. Little did I know at the time – the offending slab of sloppy defecation was slathered across the sole of my shoe. The stink followed me, along with a trail of shit across my freshly jet-washed flagstones. The little fucking pricks. 

This is not the only reason why I hate cats. All living things have to poop, after all. Myself included. On a good day, I can go about six times and still need to go again. Alas, there are only twenty-four hours in a day. Here’s another reason why cats are shit:

One cat stole my sausage. It was a rare sunny day in Bradford, England. Like every other Brit that day, I had a BBQ. I was barbequing chicken wings, burgers, and sausages with flair and style, flipping the tongs like a true Aussie juggler. I felt like I was in a circus in Sydney. I got about half the sausages on the barbie, went inside to fetch another beer and I caught the little bastard digging a hole in the bag and feasting on my raw sausages. I chased it, believing it had nowhere to go, but it leapt on top of the six-foot fence and gave me the middle finger. A solitary uncooked sausage dangling from its little jaws was its last mock triumph before dropping to the other side, never to be seen again . . . until later that night when it was whining outside my bedroom window until 3 a.m. Honestly. Can’t be doing with ’em. 

Another thing . . . Is it when they’re on their period? In season? Menstruating? I don’t fucking know. But why do they sometimes walk up to you, (when you’ve never even had the displeasure of meeting!) wail out a cringe-worthy yelp or plea, and wipe their bulbous little fanny all across your legs? Disgusting flea-ridden whores.

Another thing . . . They’re not scared anymore. Humans are at the top of the food chain. There’s no denying that. I’m not suggesting all other creatures should cower in fear when a human walks by, not at all. Believe it or not, I’m an animal lover. I adore animals, and except fucking house cats, there isn’t a living thing on the planet that I don’t believe is necessary and essential to our world. I’ve held snakes, birds, even a crocodile. I’ve fallen asleep with dogs, I’ve stroked a giraffe, I let spiders crawl across my hands. I like mice, rats, ants, pigeons, frogs, badgers, anything. I’m an animal lover. But what do cats bring to the table that other animals can’t? They kill rodents, sure, but foxes do that, and foxes are so much cooler. Cats provide company to lonely women, yes. But if these reclusive wenches bought a puppy rather than a twatbag feline flap-shuffler, I honestly believe they’d be happier! 

Cats are shit, man. You walk towards them and they’re just like, ‘I’m not moving. I was here first.’ Cocky little cunts. 

I don’t think I’d have it in me to physically injure one. Though, I often think about sling-shotting a pebble into their deformed little skulls, and sometimes I imagine booting them in the stomach, but I never actually would. I’ve said it before – I’m too much of a pussy. But just to be on the safe side, brothers, sisters – don’t let me near your cat.

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