Last night, while hauling out an ammonia-reeking garbage bag brimming full of cat excrement, I began to regret ever having welcomed the wretched beasts into our home.
For those unfamiliar with the details of my life for some reason, my wife and I are the ambivalent owners of two half-witted cats, Mona and Ben Franklin. The two of them torment us with their incessant early morning yowling and unnatural perversion. Once upon a time, we delighted in their imbecilic antics and found comfort in their ample girth, but now that we have actual human children to raise and tend to, the luster is gone.
Let me put it to you this way: while I wouldn’t want to smother them each to death with a large bath towel per se, I also wouldn’t spend much time mourning them if they were both killed by a rattlesnake or something.
Last night was the last straw. My time spent cleaning up and taking out their noxious leavings could have been spent doing more productive, affirming things reading a book or embracing my wife or sewing pleats into my jeans. What good is it to have cats if we have to put so much work into their care and they just lay around creating uncomfortable situations?
To clarify, I’m not saying that I’m actually going to do anything to my cats. I’m just saying that they are each uniquely terrible and it would be better if they had never lived, that’s all.
Their poop stinks so bad, you guys.