The tale of my avatar
Posted by Facetious Firecracker
My sister’s cat (who henceforth shall be known as Cat) hates me. Actually, hate probably isn’t a strong enough word. Loathe, perhaps. Or detest. Regardless of the verb one uses, it doesn’t change the fact that Cat thinks the world would be a better place if I weren’t in it. I would even safely bet that she would give up treats for the rest of her feline life if she never had to see me again.
The Cat that I speak of is the real life version of my avatar. And the reason she’s making such a horrifying face? I was trying to pet her when I took that picture. Turns out, that pose works perfectly when you want to use MS Paint to draw fire coming from a cat’s open mouth. She was only six months old when the avatar picture was taken. Now she’s over two years and is becoming crueler with age.
Here’s a recent picture of Cat.
I’ve never had an issue with cats before this one. In fact, I consider myself to be a “cat person.” In elementary school, I was always on the “Cats Rule, Dogs Drool” side of the argument. By the way, dogs do drool. My friend’s dog foams at the mouth every time he eats. Gross. You’ll never see a cat doing that. Well, you might, but you should probably run very far away.
hates loathes me because we had a little misunderstanding about a year ago. You know how sometimes you’re teasing a friend and you think that they think it’s funny, then find out afterward that they were completely offended? It was kind of like that. Cat and I were playing a game called Make the Kitty Angry. Basically, it goes like this: You poke the cat on the back until they try to bite you. While they’re biting to the left, you poke from the right. Repeat. I used to play this game with my family’s cat when I was growing up. He would get pissed off, hiss a few times, then about an hour later he’d jump onto the couch, chirping the whole time, and sit on my lap. No hard feelings. He could take a joke.
Cat, however, does not take jokes. Only pieces of flesh.
Ever since that fateful night of teasing Cat, she’s held a grudge against me. At first, Sister and I thought it was a coincidence. Cats can’t hold grudges. After a few months, though, we had to finally admit that she hates me. Here’s a typical visit to Sister’s house:
Cat is sprawled on the table, purring. Sister pets Cat.
Cat: Meeeeeeeeeow. Rubs against Sister’s hand.
Sister’s fiance picks up Cat. Cat fluffs up her tail with glee, chirping.
Husband talks to Cat.
Cat: Blank stare. No anger, though.
I approach Cat slowly. Hold out my hand to let her sniff. There is no danger. I only want to pet her.
So I leave Cat alone for an hour. Later, I walk past her on my way to the kitchen.
Cat: HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
I’ve been trying to make amends with Cat gradually. I offered her a treat one day. Cat walked away; Sister’s dog was happy to oblige. I rubbed Cat under her chin. She bit my hand. Sometimes I see her in her
Fortress of Doom cardboard box, glaring at me from afar, surely plotting the next way to sink her fangs into my flesh.
Husband asked me today during lunch if I practice sorcery, as part of his habit of asking random questions with no meaning.
“No,” I replied, “because if I did, Sister’s Cat wouldn’t hate me.”
“You know the Egyptians worshiped cats,” he added.
“Exactly,” I said. “Because cats are cooler than dogs.”
“No, it’s because dogs weren’t invented yet,” he quipped.
He was serious.