Fucking hillarious
Sorry I didn't fix the formatting, I just wanted to get this up as soon as I saw it.
I had a cat once when I was a little kid. Neutered, perfectly healthy cat.
Peed
on everything. EVERYTHING. If there was nothing on the floor to pee on,
he'd pull something down or push something over to pee on it. If he
couldn't do that, he'd spray. He sprayed my dresser, getting it into
every single drawer so that every single thing in it had to be thrown
away or washed. He pissed on my stereo speakers. He pissed on $200
worth of hard-to-find graphic novels. He pissed on countless paperback
books. He pissed on my bed. He pissed on my clothes. He pissed on my
stuffed animals. He'd back up and piss into the light sockets, I shit
you not. He pissed in the camping basket, he pissed on the computer
cords, the phone cords, the air-conditioning filter, the bathmat, the
clean towels, and once he pissed into a bag of unshelled pecans. Don't ask me to explain that one.
The
cat, you see, was a piss machine. A feline cylon whose only mission was
to piss all over everything built by mankind. He had elaborate piss
targeting systems, whereby he could detect anything that did not
already reek of eau de cat dick, and could hit it with pinpoint
accuracy from two or three feet away. He could piss on things
perpindicular to or even above him, like the underside of a bookshelf.
He pissed all the time.
Every test known to man and cat kind
failed to find a physiological cause. He simply enjoyed pissing the way
other people enjoy philosophy or art. It was how he understood the
world: through the fisheye lens of his piss. It was fact and
interpretation all in one, a true profundity of bodily fluids.
And he pissed on my things less
than on other people's things. Unlike other cats, but like many public
masturbators, he wasn't shy about it. He'd do it right in front of you.
Once, he walked up to my mother while she was sitting on the floor
fiddling with a pecan sheller, and he pissed on her.
You heard me.
He
backed up to my mom and loosed a scalding, spurting jet of hot yellow
cat urine right onto the shoulder of her sweatshirt. I was present when
this occurred, and I swear it is true.
Once, he shit on a
guest. Now, that was a man that we roundly despised, and I believe the
cat was only channeling our opinion, but it nevertheless did not speak
well of the cat. He would have pissed on him as well, I am certain, but
he had already pissed on my backpack.
There was only a
three-foot square area that he never pissed in, and that was where we
kept his food. Everything else was fair game. Piss, piss, piss.
And
cat piss isn't like any other kind of piss known to mankind. It's so
incredibly strong that your eyes will tear up just breathing a whiff of
it, once it's been sitting. It gets greasy, the ammonia forms visible
grains in the dark amber slurry of reeking effluvia. Our house stank of
cat piss because the smell clings to anything that comes near a
pissed-on item, and it never quite washes all the way off of
unlaunderable things like books, speakers, carpets, etc. At times I
thought it was soul-deep.
He was a really sweet cat, but the
living-with didn't work out so well. A pissing cat can fucking ruin
everything you own with relatively little effort. Believe me, I know.
I
think the only cruelty I can see in what this woman did was that she
could have at least given him that shitty 25% chance, or have tried a
no-kill shelter (which don't always take in piss-cats, again I ask you
to believe me, because we tried). Your mileage might vary, but I've
lived with the Achilles of pissing cats, and I fucking know that constant smell is a sour piss-hole eating like acid through the pristine snow of your soul.
God save me, if her cat was one tenth as bad as mine, I can't blame her.
Found in cf_hardcore. Written by naamah_darling.
I had a cat once when I was a little kid. Neutered, perfectly healthy cat.
Peed
on everything. EVERYTHING. If there was nothing on the floor to pee on,
he'd pull something down or push something over to pee on it. If he
couldn't do that, he'd spray. He sprayed my dresser, getting it into
every single drawer so that every single thing in it had to be thrown
away or washed. He pissed on my stereo speakers. He pissed on $200
worth of hard-to-find graphic novels. He pissed on countless paperback
books. He pissed on my bed. He pissed on my clothes. He pissed on my
stuffed animals. He'd back up and piss into the light sockets, I shit
you not. He pissed in the camping basket, he pissed on the computer
cords, the phone cords, the air-conditioning filter, the bathmat, the
clean towels, and once he pissed into a bag of unshelled pecans. Don't ask me to explain that one.
The
cat, you see, was a piss machine. A feline cylon whose only mission was
to piss all over everything built by mankind. He had elaborate piss
targeting systems, whereby he could detect anything that did not
already reek of eau de cat dick, and could hit it with pinpoint
accuracy from two or three feet away. He could piss on things
perpindicular to or even above him, like the underside of a bookshelf.
He pissed all the time.
Every test known to man and cat kind
failed to find a physiological cause. He simply enjoyed pissing the way
other people enjoy philosophy or art. It was how he understood the
world: through the fisheye lens of his piss. It was fact and
interpretation all in one, a true profundity of bodily fluids.
And he pissed on my things less
than on other people's things. Unlike other cats, but like many public
masturbators, he wasn't shy about it. He'd do it right in front of you.
Once, he walked up to my mother while she was sitting on the floor
fiddling with a pecan sheller, and he pissed on her.
You heard me.
He
backed up to my mom and loosed a scalding, spurting jet of hot yellow
cat urine right onto the shoulder of her sweatshirt. I was present when
this occurred, and I swear it is true.
Once, he shit on a
guest. Now, that was a man that we roundly despised, and I believe the
cat was only channeling our opinion, but it nevertheless did not speak
well of the cat. He would have pissed on him as well, I am certain, but
he had already pissed on my backpack.
There was only a
three-foot square area that he never pissed in, and that was where we
kept his food. Everything else was fair game. Piss, piss, piss.
And
cat piss isn't like any other kind of piss known to mankind. It's so
incredibly strong that your eyes will tear up just breathing a whiff of
it, once it's been sitting. It gets greasy, the ammonia forms visible
grains in the dark amber slurry of reeking effluvia. Our house stank of
cat piss because the smell clings to anything that comes near a
pissed-on item, and it never quite washes all the way off of
unlaunderable things like books, speakers, carpets, etc. At times I
thought it was soul-deep.
He was a really sweet cat, but the
living-with didn't work out so well. A pissing cat can fucking ruin
everything you own with relatively little effort. Believe me, I know.
I
think the only cruelty I can see in what this woman did was that she
could have at least given him that shitty 25% chance, or have tried a
no-kill shelter (which don't always take in piss-cats, again I ask you
to believe me, because we tried). Your mileage might vary, but I've
lived with the Achilles of pissing cats, and I fucking know that constant smell is a sour piss-hole eating like acid through the pristine snow of your soul.
God save me, if her cat was one tenth as bad as mine, I can't blame her.
Found in cf_hardcore. Written by naamah_darling.