Look at him. Look at that adorable little furry bastard.
Pictured: Pure evil
He’s the most lovable, friendliest, ginger-blonde pussy cat with a tendency to roll down stairs and obsession with being a ninja I’ve ever laid eyes upon. But right now I think I have a justifiable excuse to hate him with every fibre of my being.
This will blow over, obviously, because quite frankly he is impossible to hate for any great length of time.
First, some background information. This is Scotty, a young cat who lives in the neighborhood that has adopted us as his second (or perhaps third – we really don’t know at this point) family. We feed him and shelter him from the rain. We let him be when he jumps onto one of the beds and dozes off for 10 hours.
At 5:30am last night he woke me up. I had no idea he was even in the house, but there he was, behind my bedroom door, making a bit of a racket. He obviously wanted attention, so I opened the door and he led me downstairs to his food bowl.
Under normal circumstances I would’ve flatly refused to feed anything or indeed anyone at such an hour, but Scotty gave me a look of pity and despair that would’ve make Puss in Boots melt. I fed him the last of our cat food (about half a sachet’s worth of that disgusting jellied cat meat) and gave him some milk and had a bit of a play with him, all the while trying my best not to topple over sideways due to my brain still not having fully awoken yet. He likes playing with plastic jugs, tiny balls and cardboard boxes, but I felt like I didn’t need to supervise him, so I stuck him in a box with a jug and a ball and went to bed, leaving him to his own devices.
15 minutes later I was awoken again by further incessant meowing outside my bedroom door.
I thought “right, that’s it, I’d better put him to sleep”.
As in, get a blanket or something and stick him on it. Not euthanize him. Sadists.
Unfortunately, at the time, I didn’t consider the possibility that Scotty was operating on a different sleep schedule to me. Granted, my own body’s sleep schedule is so irregular and abnormal that it’s probably dictated by some incredibly complicated quantum mechanics. But I was sure that if I just procured a blanket and set him down on it, that would be enough.
Not so. I had to chase him around trying to get him either settle down somewhere, or leave the house (which he wouldn’t because it was cold and rainy outside) – an exercise which involved luring him into rooms with his own toys, picking him up in awkward arrangements that probably didn’t do his engorged digestive system any favors, and closing doors behind him in an ill-conceived effort to deter him from running away again. It felt a bit like I was playing Chip’s Challenge, arranging blocks and opening/closing doors to try and lure that annoying paramecium into an enclosure from which he couldn’t escape. In fact, it was exactly like that… only with a cat instead of a paramecium.
This whole ordeal, from the point at which he first woke me up, lasted roughly an hour. In the end he managed to pry the previously-closed kitchen door open again, and stood once more by his food bowl. It was starting to get light outside, there was no food left for him, and he’d had a massive helping merely half an hour ago. I began to think that he was starting to take the piss.
There was some milk left, however, and I think this satiated him, at least partially. I unleashed a veritable torrent of milk into his bowl, and having drunk it, he then perched onto one of the chairs in our conservatory and sat, for the time being immobilized. I bade him goodnight and shut the kitchen door behind him. There he remained for the rest of the night, effectively trapped in one part of the house.
Now – if my own sleep schedule is thrown into any sort of disarray due to interruptions in the night, I will of course wake up later in the day. Much later. Obscenely later. Disproportionately later. I’d gone to bed at about 1:30am, and my body, being the potato sack of laziness that it is, slept until 11:00am – at which time I managed to haul myself out of bed because some visitors came round to the house to look at my room – but I had to fall unconscious again (nearly as soon as they’d left) until… wait for it… 2:30pm. I’ve spent the rest of the day still feeling absolutely knackered.
Aaaaaand that is how a cat cost me half of an entire day in less than an hour.
You can read more of Scotty’s escapades on my brother’s blog.