My cat is trying to kill me. So, if I should vanish inexplicably, you now know why. Please alert the police and ask them to look to my cat as the responsible party.

Please also tell them that he is very good at acting innocent, particularly when he lies on his back and falls asleep with his little spotted feet in the air. In fact, to look at him when he does this, you wouldn't think he could harm a fly.

But you would be wrong.

Pure Evil

Every day my cat makes attempts on my life. His only efforts at this point are to trip me, but since this has been fruitless I wouldn't be surprised to find him brandishing a weapon at some point in the future. Maybe it will be a gun...maybe he will swipe a knife from the block in the kitchen....who knows. But it is coming. I can feel it.

He may not need to go that route, however, as his tripping attempts are really pretty good. Every time I walk across the house - minding my own business I will have you know - the cat comes seemingly out of nowhere and cuts a close swerve at my feet. He then trots off a short distance and surveys the situation to see if he was, at last, successful.

Another favored technique is to walk cutely ahead of me a pace or two, and then simply stop and sit down to some suddenly-remembered bit of bathing he hasn't managed to squeeze into his busy schedule. I reel forward, scrambling to maneuver around the planted feline, hoping I don't suffer a concussion in the process.

The kitchen is particularly dangerous, as the dining room table just outside the doorway to the kitchen serves as a good hiding spot for him, where he spends countless hours plotting my eventual demise. As I enter or leave the kitchen, invariably he will come dashing from under his hideout, front paws flailing, claws bared, zeroed in on my ankles. In my hesitancy to kick the crap out of my foe, I wind up staggering as though I am blindly drunk, fumbling to regain my balance on whatever is within arm's reach, cussing sourly and announcing to no one in particular for the umpteenth time that my cat is, indeed, trying to kill me.

The past few days have revealed a new facet to his master plan. It would seem merely tripping me is no longer on his to-do list; lately he seems to want to break my leg. He will fling himself blurrily toward my feet as documented above, but instead of closely cutting me off, he ricochets off my shin, which, while amusing in theory, is admittedly rather painful.

You might think this cat would show more gratitude, since I rescued him from a life on the streets, and feed him Iams, which isn't cheap, damn him. I once thought he was feral, but I am reconsidering this decision. Now, I am thinking his previous owner wisely ejected him from her home as a self-preservation technique.

Or, maybe he killed her. Yes, that's got to be it.

So, anyway, if & when the cat finally achieves his ultimate goal and sends my head crashing into a wall, it is 1st degree murder. Call the cops, and no matter how they chuckle or threaten to have you looked at by psychiatrists, insist that it was the cat who killed me. Tell them to buy some tiny handcuffs and head over to my place before someone else gets hurt.

~ July 9, 2004