One Whipped Mother

The Woman Who Loved Cat Dancing

I don’t know what could possibly be wrong with my cat, but I do know that if there were a doctor who specialized in shrinking feline brain, I would immediately write out a check, cost be damned, to fix my mentally unbalanced kitter kat. She’s absolutely nuts.

The check would bounce like a tennis ball, sure, but at least my cat would receive the help she so desperately needs.

Oh, I hear all of you kitty owners out there going, “But Ms. Lori, all cats are mentally unbalanced!” and to you I will say, yes, of course, but my kitty is beyond the cute and adorably silly stage of said instability, and is, unfortunately, now within the realm of full-blown psychosis. Were she a human being, there is a strong possibility she’d eventually find herself locked up in a maximum security facility for the criminally insane. She would, without doubt, murder me with her bare paws. For laughing. She would kill me and not shed a tear because she hates my laugh that much.

Let’s go through this again so as not to misinterpret that statement: My cat hates my laugh.

Rare are the times that I laugh out loud, belly laugh till tears trickle down my cheeks and run into my wide open, soundless mouth. I find many things amusing, but that precious, orgasmic sensation of completely losing control, laughing so hard my vocal chords cease to work as my body shudders uncontrollably and my lungs collapse in on themselves and tears flow and my face gets really ugly, resembling that of an asphyxiation victim, is the Holy Grail of sensations. When it finds me (for I am never able to find it -- it delights in surprising me during unexpected moments maybe twice a year), I go with it, run with it, allow it to carry me away, and I hang onto it until long after those around me have stopped laughing, until they are stone-faced and staring at me, until their foreheads develop obvious worry lines. I will hang onto that Holy Grail until the heretofore worried onlookers become disgusted by my soundless wheezing and ugly face, until they utter “Oh, my God,” and quickly leave the room as I pound my fists and snort and weep myself into total nirvana.

I’m thrilled to report that the Holy Grail gifted me last night, and there are no words to describe how delicious the experience was. It’d been well over eight months or so since my last episode, and I welcomed that Holy Grail like a long lost lover -- I embraced it and smothered it with kisses as it had its way with me, and oh lawd, it was good.

My cat, however, began her St. Vitus-like Dance of death soon as my tears started to roll. If only you could have seen the look in her eyes…it was a look of pure hate, pure insanity, a look steeped in murderous intent. Apparently, my laughter sets off a deep, primal urge to hunt, capture and kill, and this confuses and terrifies my cat. I’m sure she must be thinking, “But me love Mama! Me no kill Mama! Poor Mama…” Then, as my laughter progresses, develops into a shrill whistle that is imperceptible to the human ear, my face forming into a hideous mask, her formerly loving self is swallowed by Instinct, and as we all know, we are powerless while in the throes of Instinct.

“Mama bad. Mama bird. Mama die. Me kill Mama…Kill…Kill! No! Mama love! Love Mama! Poor Mama! Mama die! Yes, Mama die!”

And she begins her dance, a graceful skip and hop of a dance interspersed with air-clawing and tail wagging, her eyes slits, her ears flat to her skull as she fights against Instinct, then, as my laughter reaches its apex, the moment that onlookers turn away in disgust, she, like those onlookers, turns away and runs, her tail poofed four times its normal size.

Which only makes me laugh even harder.

Oftentimes, she will stay hidden in some secret location until she feels it is safe to look at me without wanting to shred my face into ribbons.

I think I died last night, if only for a second, because I saw angels through my tears, heard harps and the unmistakable sounds of Jimi Hendrix ripping chords with his teeth. I swear I saw Jesus, and he looked remarkably similar to the grinning Burger King mascot, disturbing, beautiful.

My cat still won’t come out of hiding, even after tempting her with Fancy Feast this morning.

I ask you, WTF?

posted by Ms. Lori @ 11:33 AM