Cats are sneaky and can't be trusted

I have a cat that I "inherited" in '92 from an ex-live-in girl friend. Long story, short: she and I were having some problems, I thought (since me told me so) that we were improving things. I came home one Friday night from working out of town all week and she, her kids (whom I loved dearly and still miss) and all her stuff were gone. And at the door to greet me was our stupid cat, Spaz.

Now, at the time I was royally pissed-off that she'd left me a cat that I didn't want in the first place. However, over the years, Spaz and I have actually grown to like each other. I think. Thought. I don't know anymore. He certainly can't be trusted and has a twisted sense of justice. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

We have one inviolate rule around here: that hairy lug of a cat is not, not, NOT allowed into my bedroom. I want one place in the house that is mostly free of his hair. Plus, for a long time I wore suits to work every day and I didn't want them to get hairy before I left for work in the morning. So, no Spaz, and, ergo, no Spaz-hair in the room. Them's the rules.

Now, Spaz is quite aware of the no-trespass rule in force for my bedroom. Whenever he looks at the door, I tell him in stern tones that he doesn't really want to go in there. If he walks toward the door, same thing. If he actually dares to cross the threshold, something soft gets thrown at him accompanied by loud recriminations about his lack of intelligence. Then scary arm-waving ensues and he runs away, likely fearing for his pathetic, worthless hide.

If he actually goes into the room (as occasionally happens) and I find him in there, he runs out quickly before the loud noises and scary arm-flapping begin. However, so as not to disappoint, I always treat him to my usual territorial display (perhaps chest-thumping would help), followed by at least one flying pillow. Maybe two, since he dared to actually cross the line. I usually try for a kick in his furry ass, but have yet to actually connect. Then for the next hour, he's treated to surly tones questioning his intelligence, heritage and masculinity (He's a cat. How masculine can he be? I mean really....).

Believe me, Spaz *knows* he's not supposed to go into the Inner Sanctum.

(I sometimes wonder how many times he's slinked in there and back out, getting away with his crime and whether he laughs at his cat-burglar prowess at not getting caught)

Today, when I got home from work, follow by a dinner gathering with friends (total time away from the house was well over 12 hours), guess who *didn't* meet me at the front door like he usually does? And guess where that dumb-ass, dim-witted, pea-brained sorry wretch of a feline was? Right. LOCKED in my bedroom all day.

The dolt sneaked in there while I was upstairs bagging my laptop, preparing to leave for work. I came back downstairs and left the house, heading off to work and dinner. As always, before I left I checked that the bedroom door was closed. It was. So, off I went for a very long day, giving my sneaky and mentally challenged cat not a single thought. I figured he was on his window perch, watching the world go past (or, more likely, sleeping as it passed him by).

Well, I got home tonight and was not met by Spaz at the door. My first thought was that he was hurt, sick or, perhaps, dead. Spaz is pushing 11 or 12 and I sometimes wonder how much time we have left together. Anyway, I hear bone-head whining like the little pussy that he is, and tracked the sounds to behind my closed bedroom door. He was whining to be released from his prison of nearly 13 hours.

I opened the door, and he *flew* past me, knowing fully well he needed to dodge my futile attempt to kick him in the ass as he sped past. I was furious. He'd spent all day in that room -- getting his hair all over everything. Hairy damned moron.

Sure enough, there were clumps of hair on the bedspread. Plus, he'd bent the aluminum Levelors all to Hell and gone, trying to get between them and the window to watch the world, since his perch was unreachable.

Then I found what I thought was the last straw, the piece de resistance: he shat upon my bed. On my bedspread and a corner of the sheets that were peaking out from under the spread. Shit. Cat shit. Feline feces. Smelly, disgusting, stomach-turning cat shit. AAARGH!

So, I stripped the bed and boy was I surprised. I found what was REALLY the piece de resistance: he peed on my pillow. Peed. URINATED. Not on the floor, or somewhere else. On my damned pillow. No doubt as retribution for locking him all day in the room. It was his statement on his unhappiness about how I'd sequestered him away from his food, his water and a proper cat box (surely my bed as inadequate for the task). He thought the whole thing was somehow my fault. Me. MY fault.

See? Brain damaged. He's by-God brain-damaged.

Well, the pillow pee sent me over the edge -- into resignation. The anger turned to cold, blood chilling hatred of all cats everywhere. And leading the hate parade is my dim-witted cat with a perverse sense of justice (after all, he's the idiot that sneaked into my room when I wasn't looking, only to be trapped when the air conditioning started and blew the door shut).

So, he's the dumb-ass, but I'm the one doing laundry in the middle of the night so I can put my bed back together.

Anyone want a stupid, hairy, self-serving, disloyal, brain-damaged, fat cat that doesn't follow rules? Hmm?

Grrrrr..... >:(