Once more unto the breach
I tend to come off as being anti-cat when in fact I’m mostly just anti-dirt. I forgive dogs their dirtiness because they are… you know… awesome whereas cats exist simply because we couldn’t find anything to eat on them.
I also like dogs because they usually want to hang out with you while cats are simply too retarded to understand that they owe their survival to you. Sure, cat-people will tell you that cats are superior in intelligence to dogs and too mindful to do whatever their human companions wish. But, seriously, that’s just bullshit. Cats’ brains are the size of your thumb.
If cats were so smart, why don’t they lead the blind? Or help policemen? It’s not because they have a “mind-of-their-own” or they’re “too independent.” It’s because of the peanut brain. Look it up. It’s in a science book or something.
If you’ve got a cat that’s a reasonable size (not just one of those furry bags of fat) and it’s clean and lives indoors, I can totally deal with it. I’ll scratch it and pet it and all of that crap. I just won’t think it’s as cool as a dog. (Of course, it’s automatically cooler than one of those little fuzzy dogs that is just a glorified squirrel. But that’s another subject.)
I bring all this up to preface the story that Monty’s anti-social feline has been leaping on our kitchen counters. I suspected as much yesterday when I found some things on the floor in the kitchen. But this morning, my suspicions were confirmed when not only were some paper towels knocked to the floor but my new loaf of bread was askew.
Naturally, I inspected the bread bag for tiny puncture wounds and found several. Then I began a protracted internal debate about what to do about the bread: eat it or throw it all away. Everytime I would convince myself that I was being paranoid even to consider throwing it away, I would think of the microscopic pooplet particles surely in its filthy claws from digging in its crap box. Then I would consider that those microbes were floating around the house anyway. Then I woud think, not in my bread they’re not!
This went on for far longer than it should have. In the end, I made a sandwich with bread from the middle of the loaf — as far away from the punctures as I could manage. I am now about to eat that sandwich. If I am struck ill, tell the doctors about the pooplets.