The Psychokitty Speaks Out: Diary of a Mad Housecat

The Psychokitty Speaks Out

Diary of a Mad Housecat

Max Thompson

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Giving a voice to kitties everywhere

I’m Max. I'm 14 pounds of sleek black and white glory. With an attitude. And opinions. On everything.

OCTOBER 2003

OCTOBER 25, 2003

Something interesting: my entire nose fits into just one of the Woman’s nostrils. She gets all pissy on me when I do this, but what does she realistically expect? I mean, come on! Something up there smells like it buried itself in deep and died. It’s putrid, foul, and disgusting smelling.

I. Love. It.

It’s not like I bother her every ten minutes for catch a whiff. Out of common courtesy I wait until she’s asleep. I creep very carefully onto her sleeping body, sit gently, and jam my nose up the closest nostril as far—and as delicately—as I can. It’s not as if I’m trying to wake her up. It’s not my fault if she a) sleeps too lightly, and b) has this thing about me standing on her boobs.

I don’t know about these People. I’ve already made it clear that cats don’t love people, but the Woman keeps picking me up and cooing I knoooowwwww you lovvvve me.

Look, lady, you paid someone to cut my nads off. No, I don’t love you. Besides, if you really loved me, you wouldn’t get so bent out of shape when I stand outside the bedroom door at 3 a.m. to sing. I have a good voice—you should sit up, listen, and appreciate the gift of my musical talent.

Oh, and tell the Man that if he ever locks me in the bathroom again, I’m going to poop on his pillow.

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OCTOBER 26, 2003

Ok, let’s start with today’s time change. I don’t care what the people say, it was a BAD IDEA. Sure, their fancy little timepieces might have said 7 a.m., but my stomach said it was 8 a.m. and that’s the latest I should be forced to wait for food. I’m not a bad cat. Most mornings I wait patiently for the Woman to drag herself out of bed before I begin my daily reminders that I haven’t been fed since the night before and I am Starving To Death.

This time change is an egregious error. I was not about to wait until one of the People decided they’d had enough rest. I was hungry, dammit, so of course I started calling out to them. Gently at first. Naturally. But when they were still wrapped up in those blankets and my stomach was growling so hard it hurt, I let them have it. Yes, I howled my freaking head off, until the Man finally got up.

But would he lower himself to opening up a can of Stinky Goodness for me? No. He read his stupid newspaper first.

Look, people, get a clue. We don’t love you. We love your opposable thumbs. Accept that and we’ll get along much better.

OCTOBER 27,2003

A common misconception among those chosen to care for our species: when we wind our way through your legs while you are trying to walk down stairs, we are not trying to kill you. That would be counterproductive; if you die, who will open the cans of food?

Really, we’re only trying to piss you off. And it seems like we’re doing a very good job.

OCTOBER 28, 2003

In what world is it acceptable to come home an hour and fifteen minutes late when you have a hungry feline waiting for you? Okay, so it was really only fifteen minutes late, but I’m still extremely annoyed about this time change. Yeah, sure, the People always leave dry food out, but they know that’s not what I want.

I’m not obsessed with food. It just seems that way.

And what’s with this No, you can’t sit on my lap right now? bull? I don’t care if you have to pee. Hold it and let me have my throne.

Oh yeah, and if you don’t change my litter box tonight, I’m going to poop on your pillow.

OCTOBER 29, 2004

Peoples, thou must remembereth: if you pisseth off the cat, something you own may meet a toothy death.

Just a thought...

OCTOBER 30, 2004

Here’s a DUH moment for you. I barf, and the Woman comes up and asks, Aw, do you have a tummy ache?

Hello? Do you not see the contents of my tummy all over the kitchen floor?

Clean it up—without yakking your own dinner up—and feed me again. My tummy did hurt...now it’s just empty.

OCTOBER 31, 2003

All right, I was just lying there on the chair, licking myself, when the Woman comes up, picks me up without asking, and hugs me while cooing Ooooh, you are so cute.

Well, yeah, lady I know that, but come on. Just, geez. Gag me.

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People traditions are just odd. And annoying. You’d never find a bunch of cats throwing costumes on and going door to door, begging for treats they’re normally not allowed to have. It was sad, really, to see all these sticky little people posturing their imagined cuteness for candy that neither smells bad enough to be good nor reeks enough to get them high.

Amateurs.

Cats never beg. We demand. And we usually get what we want.

Take tonight, for instance. My people were sitting outside with the neighbors and their small, sticky male offspring. I was hungry—it was only half an hour until dinner time, and my stomach was rumbling loudly—so every time one of them came into the house for one thing or another, I hollered at them.

And what do you know, after my incessant demands (and some forced cuteness; I don’t mind the small sticky person so much, and I’ll humor him by letting him wave at me through the screen, which seems to make them all happy) the Woman ran inside—yes, she ran—to fill my plate with some nice Trout Stinky Goodness.

Begging doesn’t work.

But demanding, in a tone that says, This is my right, and you are my servant, invariably does.

People are so gullible.

NOVEMBER 2003

NOVEMBER 1, 2003

Attention, fellow felines ... if you live in a house with stairs (the more the better) this is a must-do:

Take a golf ball, or some other hard rolling object, and carry it to the top-most stair. Set it down and push it over the edge. Listen as it loudly bounces down the stairs thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk and then a nice whirrrrrr as it rolls across the floor at the bottom.

Run down stairs, as heavy footed as you can, get the ball, and run back up.

Repeat the process.

Trust me, your People will love this.

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The Woman was sitting here at the desk, typing away, when I jumped up into her lap to see what she was working on. She looked down and asked, Do you mind?

I was thinking, No, not really, just keep on doing it, but she sighed and lifted me up, then plopped me down onto the seat, muttering something about having to answer Mother Nature.

I didn’t even hear the phone ring.

NOVEMBER 2, 2003

Felines have very sensitive hearing; this isn’t just a personal affliction, it’s a scientific fact. We hear better than humans do, and certain noises are not only unpleasant, they’re downright painful.

Bearing this in mind, people, please stop singing. You don’t sound half as good as you think. In fact, you don’t sound good at all.

So, stop. Just stop.

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NOVEMBER 3, 2003

Holy crap, how much can one person pee? Really, if she were using my litter box, it would have exploded by now. At this rate, she might as well just sleep in the bathroom. Just...wow.

NOVEMBER 4, 2003

We used to have a dog. He was there when the Younger Human (where the hell did he go, anyway?) brought me home; I admit, at first I was terrified of him, but he made it clear right from the bat that he didn’t intend to turn me into kitty cacciatore, so we kept our separate peace. He fulfilled his position of being the family gas bag, and since The People were so absorbed in the vast quantities of fur he shed all over the place, they rarely noticed how much I was leaving on their clothes and furniture. He left me alone, so all in all he was all right for a dog.

No, cats and dogs don’t always hate each other. We can co-exist, and I understand that my feline predecessor treated the dog as if he was her own child. A little weird, but...whatever.

He’s gone, too, now, though I’m pretty sure he’s not off with the Younger Human; my People can talk about the Younger Human in the present tense, but they talk about the dog with sadness tinged voices. As if Something Happened. Something not very good.

This afternoon the Woman was looking at a picture of herself and the dog while I bathed on the window perch in her office. She glanced over at me and said, I still miss my Booger Bear, Max.

I could point out that she has her species a little mixed up, but I won’t; she did seem genuinely sad and in need of something. I can never be sure what ‘something’ it is that people need, but they seem to enjoy it if I spend a few minutes on their laps, so I abandoned the bath and jumped up in her lap and did the cute thing—you know, standing up on my back legs and rubbing my face against hers. It’s demeaning, but what the hell, it does seem to make her happy.

I gave a little purr and let her pet me a little, and didn’t bite when she rubbed my tummy (people, get a clue, we usually bite because we hate that...)

She seemed happier after that. I even got fed my dinner 45 minutes early.

It’s something to remember; tolerate a little of their fawning in exchange for food. Works for me. But I don’t love them. Nope.

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You know, in spite of what the People say, I’m not really a wuss. Yes, I enjoy lying on my special window seats and staring at everything going on outside, but that doesn’t mean I want to go outside. Why would I? There are Sticky Little People outside, little creatures who would pull my tail and grab at my fur, while shrieking and screaming, and I have no desire to be that close to them. There are also DOGS out there. I see them—the dog across the street, that white furry thing everyone calls Lucky. You might think he’s trained and well behaved, but if I put a shock collar on you, you’d do whatever I wanted, too. And face it, shock collar or not, if he wanted to take a bite out of me, he would.

And I’ve seen those birds. Those suckers are huge. We’re not talking dainty little sparrows here, we’re talking football sized crows. You have to respect a bird that could lift up one of those small Sticky People and carry it off. They outweigh me. I see the odds.

But that doesn’t mean I’m a wuss, or chicken, or a ’fraidy cat. It means I have brain, for Pete’s sake. Inside I have food almost on demand, several warm beds, several window seats, two laps to choose from, and a litter box that’s cleaned on an almost regular basis. Why would I want to go out there when I have all this in here?

NOVEMBER 5, 2003

He took me outside! The Man picked me up and took me out the front door, where he (with the help of the Woman...I’ll remember that) allowed one of those Sticky Little People to come up to me. While he held me tight he told the kid that he could touch me! Holy freaking overflowing litter box!

When he’s not looking, I am going to poop on his pillow.

NOVEMBER 6, 2003

Well, I tried. I had my chance this morning to get even with the Man for taking me outside, but it didn’t quite work. I had him on the stairs at 4:30 in the morning, and wound between his legs, even stood on my back legs and pawed at him, but he kept his balance.

I was nicer to the Woman; she was still sleeping when my stomach started growling, so I just jumped up on the bed and waited, patiently, curled up on her back. It didn’t take long, and she was duly grateful for the extra few minutes of snoozing. She didn’t take too long getting down the stairs and fed me right off the bat.

She did scowl at me later—the Man phoned home and tattled on me, told her I’d tried to kill him on the stairs. Phfft. If I’d really wanted him dead... She reminded me that he’s the one who pays for my food, especially the most awesome cans of Stinky Goodness.

Well, fine. I won’t try to kill him, but I’m not going to curl up and kiss his ass, either. At some point he’ll figure out that feeding me is his honor.

One can hope.

NOVEMBER 7, 2003

She’s baking something she calls brownies and holy crud, they smell awesome. But I guarantee, when they’re done, she’ll declare these aren’t good for kitties.

Yeah, well, lady, judging from the size of your ass, they’re not good for you, either.

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NOVEMBER 8, 2003

Ok. You come home, I jump in your lap, you pet me, and then remark, Damn, your fur is cold.

Doesn’t that inspire a light bulb moment for you?

Turn up the freaking heat! Just because I have a fur coat, that doesn’t mean I want icicles hanging off my already-useless nipples!

NOVEMBER 9, 2003

Cripes. Lady, that’s not music. Music is me singing to you at three in the morning. That stuff...whatever Ozzie is, Ozzie is not music. Ozzie is one step down from a dog whistle. Ozzie hurts my ears. Stop. Now.

NOVEMBER 10, 2003

You know, I try to be helpful. As annoying as humans are, they feed me (and yeah, as hard as it is to admit,