Building a Home with Meow Meows

Welp, it’s official. I finalized my adoption of Meow Meows* yesterday, so I guess I’m a cat-dad now. Cripes, I hate that term!

I think there’s something about pet ownership that immediately makes you talk like you’ve never had a meaningful relationship with any living creature that wasn’t embroidered on a sweater. Like, I don’t know if you can actually read what’s in that one-page description of my cat in that photo up there, but it actually uses the line “Holier than Meow” as shorthand for the cat’s personality… and it expects me to accept that, like, “Oh, yeah, that’s a thing normal people say.”

I don’t get all the cutesy-wutesy nonsense that surrounds cat ownership. There’s not one aspect of my cat’s behavior that makes me want to dress him in a fluffy sweater and call him “Snookums” through pouted lips. When I see Meow Meows, I immediately start to wonder which corner of my house he decided to throw up in this time. Cats are disgusting.

Plus, I know my cat has zero regard for my well-being. Meow Meows is always there, at three in the morning, right when I’m in the middle of my most restful sleep. He comes traipsing into my room and slaps me right in the face. “Wake up!” he shouts. “I need my Meow Mix!”

Actually, it’s worse than that, cuz Meow Meows isn’t declawed. So that slap in the face is more like a shank… or a… shiv. Yeah. Every morning, at three A.M., I get stabbed in the eyeball because my little meowster is out of num nums. What a jerk!

Don’t ask me how I got to be so fond of the little monster, but here we are. Most meaningful commitment I’ve ever made to another living being. My life is dysfunctional.
*Yeah, I’m keeping the name. It’s not like I ever actually call him that, anyway.