Have you ever wondered about feline witchcraft? Sometimes I'm into the spirit world. Sometimes I'm an atheist. And sometimes I think that cats are descendants from a once powerful civilization who were all wise sages of the multiverse that erected great monuments (hello pyramids?) and travelled intergalactically through their minds.
I know I know you're all, "this chick's lost her toaster," but haven't you wondered the same thing once or twice? Don't you ever feel a little tingle in your spine when a cat is looking at you that says they definitely know something and now, for whatever cataclysmic reason, they are unable to exercise all their power and are bound to this earth, doomed to eat canned turkey bloblets in gravy? And you kind of think that they only love you because you're the next most intelligent being on the planet but really they despise and occasionally punish you because you're a gross, useless human? Except for the fancy feast. That's useful, so they tolerate your existence.
I recently skipped over to Vancouver for a couple nights to visit some pals (eat too much food and get drunk) and do some work (not do any meaningful work) in the downtown area. A friend of mine was out of town and graciously offered his miniature one bedroom that he shared with his gf. In a city that charges about $7000/night for a rat inhabited utility closet, having a clean, mini condo haven with a fancy little plastic nugget-wand called a FOB and 2 hour free parking is a bloody dream.
Ok. Be good Tara. Don't fuck it up. Just feed the cat and don't touch anything.
I dropped my bags off, pet the giant, ginger fur ball and proceeded to visit my favourite restaurant with the expressed intent of becoming uncomfortably full and sufficiently bourbon pissed. Once the belt was taken down a second notch and pant removal was becoming unnervingly reasonable, I intelligently concluded it was time to make my way back to my little sanctuary for the night.
I waved my enchanted lightsaber key past the door guards and entered my precious temporary home where I immediately made eye contact with the cat. Something was off. He was glaring at me from the counter top with a curious concoction of shame, ambiguity and self righteousness. My eyes blearily scanned the room, quickly descending upon the crime scene. Earlier that evening while getting prettied up to get grotesquely wasted, I may have foolishly moved a bar stool 2 inches to the left thinking that it would be fine if I touched a couple of things. Not too many things. Just a chair. Totally normal thing to touch. Move it though? FOOL!
Seeing the opportunity to cause human suffering and also be a creature of sociopathic destruction, the cat used the altered stool to jump on to the precariously balanced, multiple levelled shelving unit that was resting against the wall. Buckling under his gargantuan weight, the shelf came crashing down in a cataclysmic trinket tornado. Everything was everywhere. A small potted plant was smashed with soil and foliage gore splayed about the floor mixed with a spatter of change, business cards, jewelry and broken glass - not to mention the shelf pieces themselves dumped in amongst the carnage.
Cool. I broke their house. One night, Campbell. You've been here for less than 12 hours and you already managed to offload your curse on their home.
After spending a few moments feebly convincing myself that I wasn't at fault, I swept up the wreckage, cursed the cat (pet him ferociously and rubbed my face against his head), peeled off my clothes into a stinking heap and fell on to my pull out couch bed.
Just at that moment when I was about to slip into the dark nothingness of drunken sleep, the feline witching hour blanketed all space and time in our little living box. You know when a cat goes fucking nuts for no reason and starts ripping around the house like a demented hell rodent? Many non cat people who have witnessed a midnight wildcat Hellmouth possession take this display as affirmation of cat evilness. Being only 1/4 cat on my mother's side, I can only say that this madness usually comes about when a cat is unable to hunt in the night. So, rather than disembowel small animals, they scale bookshelves to better scan their domain from above and sprint to corners of the house, attacking inanimate objects while flicking their tails to an insane non rhythm. Evil? Perhaps. Accessing alternate cat dimensions? Likely. Mentally hysterical, psychotic and potentially dangerous? Mm.
So not only is this ginger Bear Cat bounding from corner to corner of the 500 square foot apartment clackiting the hardwood floors with his frantic spazz claws, but now he's decided his favourite game is to attack my completely stationary legs under the covers. And also weasel his way under the pull out couch bed and cast dark magic spells on my pillow from below.
After about an hour of this schizophrenic madness, I finally decided it was best to lock the hairy warlock in the bedroom. After already breaking their house, I was apprehensive about what this might do but I was too fatigued from all the cat sorcery to not try. I shooed possessed Bear Cat into the bedroom, quickly clicked the door shut, and face planted into my pillow.
Just as I was about to drift, my eyes snapped open in mild panic.
What if he takes a dump in their bed to spite you for interrupting his sacrifice to the feline underworld? Fuck. You have to move his litter box into the bedroom.
Sigh. Rip yourself out of your hot, sweaty mess and move around a box of cat poo. Be sure to dust a bunch of shitty sand all over the place on the way too. Check. OKokok. We're good now. Face plant #3. Almost fall asleep again.
What if you didn't close the closet where you got your blankets and he malevolently lacerates all their nice things in a defiant rage? Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.
Ugggghhhhhhhh. Peel yourself out of bed again, close the closet and returned to bed.
Now the cat is upset. He proceeds to scratch at the door repeatedly for a good half hour only stopping long enough for me to foolishly feel a tingle of relief before he promptly returns to scratching.
I finally fell asleep at around 4:00am.
Here's a fun fact: I have this special affliction that causes me to wake up before 7:00am whenever I have partaken in boozy libations the night before. So, lucky me, 3 hours later I was lying awake, fucking exhausted with a delightful combination of lead brain, endless gut rotty hunger pit, and a cat shit mouth (did you shit in my mouth, you fucker?) So rather than get up to move my car, I decided to lie in a pile of emptiness and self loathing for a bit longer. Eventually hunger took control of my will to live and I emerged to find sustenance and move the dang car.
Once I ejected myself into the outside world and dragged my sorry ass to my parking spot, I experienced a tickly moment of self doubt before panic, fear and really dark self hatred set in. No you're not just the sack of shit that forgot where you parked your car, you're the chicken giblet factory fumes that didn't see the parking notice announcing the "event" taking place that day (stupid fucking pottery barn).
Oh did I mention it was raining and I was all alone when I realized that my car had been towed?
I was done. I got a stupid coffee and a shitty wrap cuz my favourite café was sold out and crawled through epidermic needle puddles back to the condo to light some sage and cleanse the space of bedeviled spirits.
I put my clothes away, gather my toiletries and went to make the bed back in to a couch and the fucking thing wouldn't go in. I broked it. No amount of force would convince this bane of my existence to transformer back into it's sitting self.
You know those moments when you just want to do this:
The cat obviously hexed the bed/couch to fuck with me. And you know what? That sign was most DEFINITELY not there when I parked. It appeared out of nowhere. And I would have moved my car in time had I not been hypnotized all night. And my hangover is totally worse than it should be. You did this to me. I know you did, pussy!
Fuck it. I'll take the rat closet.
ONE WEEK LATER
I ran into Bear Cat and was beyond ecstatic, hoping he might slink up against my leg and maybe sit in my lap and purr and do all the furry kitty love stuff. This wretched wizard who destroyed my life for a day. This horrid little necromancer towed my car but I still wish he would pay attention to me. Choose me. LOVE MEEEEEEEEE!
Vile hocus-pocus is afoot but I'm helpless against its power.
I think I have sufficiently proved my point with this anecdotal logic exercise.
Cats = Witches