House plants not house cats

    Growing up, my family had an indoor cat named Muffin. Stereotypical cat name right? But very fitting for such a stereotypical cat!
    She would lounge around in the sun during the day, occasionally chase after a string you dangled in front of her face and every once in a while stare at you with this prideful look and scratch you for no good reason.
    I loved that cat, and even though it’s pretty hard to read through the lines of a their temperamental nature, I’m almost positive the feeling was mutual. However, somewhere during the years, my love for cats has come to an abrupt halt.
    It all started when I was a freshman in high school. Muffin was long gone and we had a cat named Beans. Fitting his name to a T, he was the most flatulent creature that has walked this earth.
    He also hated my guts. I once came home to find that he had relieved himself in not just one corner of my room, but all four! I mean seriously? That conniving little animal knew where his litter box was and never once had an accident before this instance.
     Some nights, after getting back late at night from hanging out with friends he would be lurking in the bushes waiting to ambush me.
    I can’t remember how many times I came home to see this black blur from the corner of my eye running at me full speed. He was de-clawed so he never successfully injured me, he just scared the living daylights out of me.
    I currently have several farm cats at my house that are mostly a preventative measure to any possible mouse infestation. They don’t come in the house, and I have yet to actually be around three of them for longer than three minutes.
    Unfortunately, as much as I have tried hardening my heart to the cat species, one is managing to claw and hiss its way back in.

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The Imperial Republican

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