I’m Afraid to Open the Door.

I’ve been rabidly cleaning the house like a mofo, tidying up, and I’m living in fear. As I clean and purge my things to make space (for Christmas and, well, just to have space), I’m continually needing to take loads of discarded things out to the garage to add to the boxes to donate to charity. However? I can’t open the door. The door that leads out to the garage from inside the house has become impassable, and at this point I’m not sure if it’s blocked with piles of charity donations, or if I’ve subconsciously built a barricade.

Each time I get near that door I forget just a little bit that I don’t wish to open it and I reach for the knob, and as I begin to turn it I hear, “Meow!”, and I recoil in horror. What am I afraid of?

THERE ARE CATS OUT THERE.

And our cats have behavioral problems. In short? They’re assholes.  I’d rather open that door to a pack of clowns named Stabby. They’re less destructive.

Yesterday I had a fam-free day. Today I want a cat-free day, until later when it gets cold and we need personal heaters. But they hear me in here, and they wait just outside the door, piling up on the side of the door that opens, impatiently. They’re stalking. They know that as soon as that door is cracked 2.5 inches open they can scramble over each other to try to knock me down and make a break for the indoors where they will, in no certain order:

  • Hack up hairballs in places where we won’t be expecting to step in them with bare feet.
  • Tear up the sofa and claw on anything brand new that happens to be made of leather.
  • Skew my carefully closed curtains (I’m anal about this… I like them just so).
  • Knock over drinks.
  • Pull pins out of my pincushion.
  • Go fishing. Daenerys, especially, is fond of a goldfish challenge.
  • Sit on my notes.
  • Knock shit off the tables to batt around on the floor.
  • Pee on any clothing or rug left on the bathroom floor.
  • Lay all over my sewing fabric, hairing it up.
  • Scale the screen doors to try to catch birds or rabbits who are not at the top of the screen doors.

And I know that when Daenerys gets in she’ll make a beeline for any open door in an attempt to become coyote shit, and I tell her so.

They try to reason with me. They say, “But we’re afraid of the dark!”

I tell them, “The garage light is ON.”

They say, “We’re just sayin’ we’re afraid of the dark for informational purposes.”

They’re manipulative.

They say, “But it’s cold out here!”

I tell them, “You’re not naked! You have fur! And you have each other!”

Daenerys and Salem say, “But Calamity is a reclusive bitch. She won’t huddle!”

I say, “Teach her to love. Besides, you were made to live in the cold.”

They call me on my lie. “But what about that desert cat you covet?”

sandcat, photo from mental floss

“That’s a sand cat, not a desert cat. And you’re not sand cats… you’re cat cats!”

“But still!”

I roll my eyes, “Whatever.”

“Let us in!”

“NO!”

I hear something in the garage go crashing to the floor, something metallic mixed with something that sounds glass, so I fling open the door to see what they’ve done… AND THEY ALL THREE RUSH IN. Calamity hides under the couch. Salem hides under the teenager’s bed. Daenerys goes fishing, and I yell, “What the f*ck!?”

I’m getting a dog.

 

 

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