A petite mess of style and substance. A Melbourne writer. A controversial bitch daring you to see our world differently.

I Have a PURRFECT Pussy

I’ve become one of those people I hate: a single woman obsessed with cats.

I know: I judge me too. It just happened so quickly: one minute I was joking about growing old as a hoarder with 72 feline fur balls in a contaminated, feces-stained weather board home; the next minute this hilarious one liner became—not just a serious possibility—but a future I’d be more than happy to sell my soul for.

Yep. It’s clearly become a bit of an issue and, like you; I am quite concerned about my emotional stability and overall sanity. At this present moment I’m extremely aware that I’m either having the worse mental breakdown possible or I’ve simply submitted to the fact that cats are just too fucking cute.

 

This is particularly upsetting because I’ve always detested cat-people. I mean: we all know they’re bat-shit crazy. I’ve never met individuals who take their adoration to a whole new level of neurosis—the kind of crazo-town obsession where it becomes entirely appropriate to corner unsuspecting strangers in completely unnecessary situations just to preach about their cat; namely: Vivienne the Most Gorgeous Creature Who Ever Lived.

Needless to say: I have been doing this. And not only have I been doing this without shame; I’ve also been delivering these speeches with such intensity that I may as well take a PowerPoint presentation of Vivienne the Cat to every party people beg me to attend. (Based on the this-bitch-is-a-full-blown-loony! stares I’ve been receiving lately I’m honestly worried that the-pleas-for-emma-dee are going to come to an abrupt standstill. Shit.)

 

I blame my housemate. If she—Mia the Housie—didn’t bring a Tonkenese treasure into my life this dire mess would NOT be happening. I could have retained a dogs-are-way-cooler-than-cats attitude, laughed at the lecturing loonies and held my head high knowing that I was totally above incessant cat-ranting and baby-talking to a creature that licks its bodily waste off its own arse.

But no. Mia had to purchase a—I kid you not—‘designer kitten’ and bring this adorable 7–week–old ball of brilliance into my life. Not to mention she had to name the damn thing ‘Vivienne’—so now my vocab consists primarily of a pompous pronoun, ‘kitty cat’, ‘baby’, ‘little cherub’ and ‘oh Vivvy you’re sooo cute with those beautiful big blue eyes’.

I know. I make myself sick too. But it’s gotten to the point now—after living with baby girl for two months—that I’m beyond the point of help. To put it blatantly: I’ve fallen in love with a fucking cat. And, undoubtedly, this is extremely alarming. Not just because Vivienne is not a human, and not even because I now have social skills of a psychopath, but it is I-can’t-even-believe-how-fucked-up-it-is-it’s-so-fucked because I COULDN’T IMAGINE A LIFE WITHOUT HER. Specifically: a life without the presence of a cat at all.

Yep. And I’ve had pets before—hell, the bitch grew up on a (oh no she did-eeent!) farm—so it’s not like Vivienne is the first animal I’ve ever had feelings for. But she has become the one. Uhuh: Vivienne and her whole family of feline relatives are now the only type of non-human species I think I can love in this way.

 

Just the other day Vivienne climbed the fly wire screen on our balcony door. Seriously: she scaled that shit like a fucking spider on a wall (note: pre-Vivienne days anything spider-like evoked all sorts of feelings of wanting to die), clawing her little paws into the mesh of metal—most likely ripping our landlord’s door to shreds—and instead of being panicked, I watched on in admiration as the cat-girl did her this-animal-is-incredible! thing.

So basically: my days are now devoted to staring at a polar bear coloured cat (her lower back has the hue of an espresso martini though—oh, and her ears and paws are like a short black, swoon) with the same gleeful wonder I imagine a parent would with their newborn. Everything Vivienne does seems to make Mummy Emma and Mummy Mia so proud!

And this is fucked. I actually feel like I’m in a bizarre lesbian relationship with a child—Mummy Emma, Mummy Mia and Little Miss Vivienne—a family: two friends and a feline. If this isn’t queer (and crazy) … I have no goddamn clue what is!

But if you’re still not certain of the severity of the situation let me please add: any voice of reason I still possess—get it together for god sake’s … she’s a bloody cat! —is quickly being silenced by “Mummy Emma loves you so much” in Vivienne’s ear, hushed by the gentle purr of her “cute little belly” (seriously, it’s THAT cute: picture a pregnant belly on a baby penguin) and smothered by gentle kisses on her “you’re just so soft and cuddly” duckling-like fur (I’m not lying: she feels like a DUCKLING).

I’m not even going to mention how I felt about her first hiccup because what I’ve already confessed is surely enough for you too see that the bitch has gone bananas.

 

So in order to gain some form of control (and restore my reputation) I’ve taken it upon myself to figure out why the hell I’m having such an out of character cat-attack …

You already know I’ve had a thing (or five) to say about cat-people, but I’ve also been suspicious of the creature itself too. Mainly because they have eyes like, umm, a cat. I don’t know about you, but to me, those squinty eyes seem to say, “fuck off bitch or I’ll claw your normal eyeballs out.” It freaks me out.

But now (thanks to Vivienne—and maybe the fact her ‘designer genes’ created nice, non-intimidating almond-shaped eyes), I’m wondering if I’ve been too hard on cats. Maybe it’s my own fault. Maybe underneath this hard-arse exterior, I’m simply frightened to reveal that, yes; I am a lonely, love-less lass who holds a soft spot for kitties because—true to cat-lady cliché—I’m depressed, desperate and devoid of human contact. Maybe my dogs-rule-cats-drool upbringing is simply a cover up.

Or maybe—fuck, let’s face it—I’ve suppressed a traumatizing childhood memory.

 

Back in the bitch-grew-up-on-a-rural-property day, we really were ‘all about dogs’. (Aside from having an unrideable horse, cows and three we-only-eat-the-rose-bush goats, my family also bred Pugs. And let it be known: anyone who ‘breeds’ anything is way too invested in the animal.)

At one point though, we actually owned a cat. Well, ‘owned’ is slightly misleading: we found a cat. More specifically: my dad found a stray kitten but she wasn’t in our family long enough for us to really be her ‘owners.’

Prior to naming the darling ‘Cinnamon’ (I know: such a cute name for a cat), dad discovered the frightened fluff cowering amongst what we cleverly called ‘the wood pile’. (This was an abandoned mass of rotting timbre that served no purpose other than being a serious fire hazard, given its placement under withered Cyprus trees.) Taking obvious pity on the neglected soul—as well as her golden cinnamon-coloured coating, the kitten was also covered in dust, quite–possibly disease and disheveled so much so that dad first mistook her for a giant rat—dad (using an old rag to prevent potential risks/rabies) scooped her up and carried her in his arms and into our hearts. Well, actually: first he carried her into the laundry to sterilize the filth-ball in a soapy bath of anti–flea cream, antiseptics and welcome-to-your-new-home shampoo. THEN he gently tucked her into our hearts.

 

*Oh. Excuse me for a tick—all this reminiscing is causing the bitch a touch of teary—BRB after a cigarette break(down).

 

Right. Apologies. I’ve pulled my oh-god-I-wish-I-didn’t-know-where-this-was-going shit together.

I was nine or ten when all this was happening. Considering this, Cinnamon was a whole new level of “OMG look at the teeny-weeny kitty; can we keep her mum and dad; can we keep her PLEASE!”

We did keep her. We kept her, all of us fully aware—after a stern ‘adult’ conversation courtesy of papa dee—that Cinnamon ‘might not make it’: that she might get ‘sick’ because she had been ‘left behind’ at such a young age. Well—after a couple of weeks of milk, crushed WeetBix, uncountable cuddles and ‘playing dress ups’—Cinnamon had reached well and truly killing it! health.

 

I suppose she stopped killing it when she well and truly got killed.

I don’t want to go into too much graphic detail so in a few words this is what happened: kitten explored paddock; cows (and more importantly their hooves) in paddock; Cinnamon crushed like a stick into powder … ground Cinnamon; goodbye Cinnamon.

 

Yes. It’s all rather unpleasant. But I think it explains a lot.

Maybe I’m completely obsessed with Vivienne The Most Gorgeous Creature who Ever Lived simply because she lived. Simply because she still looks like a polar bear instead of a pulverized bit of cow shit.

But then, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I just want you to acknowledge that, hey, if I want to live with 72 cats in an isolated cottage in the outer suburbs of nowhere, washing my hair with feline feces and baby-talking to all ma almond-eyed bitches … you’d still be my friend.

 

 

 

Xxxx

 

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