My cat is in therapy…



Ok, so not really MY cat. But the cat me and my housemates have been babysitting for the past month or so. Well, mainly my housemate because I’m back at my parent’s house for the holidays, and also because frankly, I want nothing to do with that mentally deranged spawn of Satan’s loin. So the S.O.S (spawn of satan), apparently can no longer be trusted to live in his former abode, due to several attempts to kill the other cats that live there. Yes, for the past month I have been living with a homicidal cat. Needless to say, I didn’t readily agree to this thing being in my house, but I eventually considered that as a flexi-vegan, it didn’t become me to refuse to offer some sort of shelter to an emotionally unstable and soon to be homeless cat. I had 2 conditions .1) It was not to be allowed in the kitchen on any conditions. 2) It was to be kept out of my bedroom under all  circumstances.  These two stipulations have been broken. The first endlessly, the second once.

This cat is a particularly rare breed that is more expensive than 3 months worth of my rent. That sickens me in and of itself. It’s also extremely beautiful, which is an object lesson in life – just because he/ she is good looking, doesn’t mean that they aren’t from the pits of darkest hell. Now you might be thinking that I’m being a little bit harsh, what did the cat ever do to me? I’m glad you asked.

A few weeks ago, I stood in front of my mirror after my shower and began the process of lotioning my ashy legs (for those of you who don’t know, when brown people shower they have to use lotion or our skin looks kinda grey/white tinged). Mid process, I began to have the distinct feeling that there was someone watching me. I brushed it off at first as a product of my overactive and hugely paranoid imagination, but double checked that the curtains and doors were closed just in case. I returned to the the lotioning process, slightly weirded out, but determined to press on nonetheless. I stopped. Nope. Still felt like I was being watched. And then I heard a movement from next to the sofa. There he was..all his £1000 pound furry glory. Hiding in the shadows of my Wilkinson’s throw, and looking mildly fascinated, and, I believe slightly amused. I wasn’t amused. I restrained the desire to squirt lotion in his eye, and calmly ushered him out of the room.

Then there was the matter of me going to brush my teeth and finding the S.O.S  in the bathroom sink. That obviously got thoroughly cleaned with Dettol. Not to mention that his behaviour became so erratic, violent and frankly childish that my housemate could no longer sleep in the same room with him, and decided (against my express wishes), to allow him to sleep in the kitchen. So now the S.O.S is all up in my business every time I want a midnight snack, and my snack adventures are divided between preventing him from scratching at me while my back is turned, and averting his attempts to escape from the kitchen.

So basically, I know this cat has issues. A couple of weeks post the peeping-tomcat-lotion-incident, I woke up and sauntered into the kitchen in my polar bear onesie (yes, I have two onesies, one reindeer, one polar bear), to be greeted by three strange individuals. I recognised the first two – they were S.O.S’s parents. The abandoners. There they were sitting at the back of the kitchen on the beanbags, with the abandoned foster cat in their arms talking my housemate and a third random person. I pretended to be intently concentrating on washing a bowl, whilst trying to listen to their conversation. “So I think we need to focus on making him more comfortable in this environment….” “Are there any particular patters to his crying..” “There are some cheap games you can play to make him acclimatise better..” “We need to work on making him less dependent on you..”. Had we just had a baby? Nope. My housemate later explained, we had just had a visit from the cat therapist.

Now, I understand that the cat is ape-crazy. He has repeatedly scratched and bitten my housemate, practically sexually harassed me, and attempted to kill another cat…. but at the end of the day, he’s a cat. A very expensive cat. A very expensive spoilt cat. Oh, and did I mention the fact that his owners feed him vegan cat food? Which I think is the definition of #teamtoomuch. Is therapy really necessary? Like, all the cat needs is some good, old fashioned Jamaican discipline. After the lotion incident, I had a conversation with S.O.S , told him I wasn’t his friend and since then, I haven’t had any up close encounters with him. It’s all about setting boundaries.

I think cat therapy is just another symptom of how ridiculous Western Society has become – I mean talk about first world problems, this is textbook.

As of yesterday, my family and I have acquired a rabbit. Not long term- just for two weeks while some friends of ours are on holiday in the Caribbean. Although the rabbit will be treated well – fed, watered, and given the odd stroke, it ain’t part of the family. It’s a bunny. This is the first time our family has had any kind of animal apart from a brief (and tragically ended) experience with Sea Monkeys, and I’m curious to see how we’re going to adjust to Coco Millie’s arrival. (Yeh, I didn’t name her).

What do you guys think about giving therapy to pets? And how do you see yours – are they as much a part of the family as everyone else? Did you grow up with pets?


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