So I have this cat.
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Actually it’s my girlfriend’s cat.
Actually we have two, a small grey tabby named T**** that is a blast to have around, and the “other one”.
It’s corpulent, bright orange and has medium length hair, so of course to me it’s name has only ever been Fat Bastard.
(I’m not kidding, this cat is obese enough that it’s gut leaves it’s own trail in the middle of it’s footprints after I vacuum the carpet, uniformly triangulating the food dish, the litter box, and the hammock it has steamrollered for itself in my underwear hamper)
Fat Bastard has a problem.
It’s very existence revolves solely around consuming anything organic.
I mean anything.
We can’t have real plants anymore, not even cactus.
(My girlfriend didn’t laugh when I, tired of the green vomit, suggested Poinsettias)
We have all of the food stored in cupboards that have child locks on them.
Opening the fridge involves holding a broom.
(I’d love to teach the fucker a lesson by trapping it in there for a little bit, but beyond the cessation of all sexual activity when my girlfriend finds out, I’m pretty sure this thing is as well-insulated as a walrus and I’d only open the door and discover carnage, not to mention fuzzy rage propelling itself to freedom with one of it’s signature exertion farts)
We have a bungee cord holding the lid on the trash can, which also happens to be attached to the wall to prevent, as my girlfriend calls it, “accidental tipping”.
Ordering pizza involves trapping it in a bedroom, then listening to it scratch furiously at the door as soon as it gets a whiff of oregano.
It drinks pop.
We can’t walk away from the stove while preparing a meal, as even scalding hot pots and pans have proven no match for it’s powerful, powerful lust.
I love bacon, yet it’s become contraband since the “incident”.
(Which my girlfriend still somehow regards as my fault, as if I encouraged the fucking thing to snatch sizzling bacon right out of the pan, headfirst, then tear-ass around the house alternating between muted howling and ragged, gasping swallows.)
It has, on a number of occasions, snarfed an entire pack of cigarettes.
Christ, this cat has eaten soap that smelled like melon.
It was entertaining at first, playing the “Let’s see what we can get in there” game, but when this fucking beast blew right through wasabi, jalapenos, mustard, lemons, live grasshoppers, Skittles, and an extra-shot latte, I got the point.
I’m tired of having to treat simple food items like they’re plutonium.
I miss having a bag of chips or a cold pizza on the coffee table while I’m watching the game.
I’m fed up with having to wait to do laundry because the basement has been fouled by a particularly rank dump.
Enough is enough.
If you want her, she’s yours.
The girlfriend or the cat, it’s your call…
(Either way, you don’t even have to get out of the car; I’ll just unwrap a Kraft single and throw it in the backseat.)
Please, help a guy out…