Revenge to Matthew Martin's Story.





Ever since I was 6 years old, I wanted a cat. I know, it is strange, a freckled maniac little boy, content with riding lawn mowers and setting bird houses on fire, obsessed with the idea of raising a feline from a kitten to a cat. But it was my dream and I have an old notebook with gum on the cover full of magazine cat cut outs to prove it. Unfortunately, both of my type-a, jello-making, polo-wearing parents were anti-mess. With me, a kid who would build mud fortresses under his bed, an extra source of entropy of any sort was not welcome.
So I waited.

High school came and went, I went to Prom with the 14th hottest girl in our grade, got elected class clown and almost wasn't allowed to walk at graduation due to an incident with a fire in the library.

College came and went, I date 14 semi-attractive women, majored in food science and was banned from all sports events due to an incident with a fire and the school mascot.

Years went by, and finally, I lived alone. With no anti-climactic parents, no dorm rules and no Hyper allergic room mates.

This was it, this was my time.

Palms sweaty from anticipation, tie thrown over my shoulder ffrom work, I pawed through my cat notebok to find the best breed. I wanted the perfect feline, one to cancel out both my flaming red hair and my boyish tendency towards flames. This cat would change my life, would be the answer to my parents prayers. I set about finding a kitten online. I felt as though I was cheating the system, like ordering a mail-order bride. No digital picture of a cat would ever effectively sum up the love this cat and I were going to have for each other. Well, that's waht I thought, until I saw her online. The sweetest little Russian Blue anyone will ever see, with sleepy kitten eyes and padded kitten paws. I contacted the seller, paid over the phone (by credit card, despite my despairing balance due to a certain incident with a taxi cab rolling over and was suddenly hit with the revelation that my home was soon to be inhabited by the most loved animal ever to exist.

The next few weeks were spent occupied in what expecting mothers and gay men adopting call "nesting". I bought equipment, cat toys, litter boxes, brushes, medicines and even little cat booties (the Japanese developed these so their cats could assist with the cleaning of their hardwood floors). When the day came that my Russian Blue would arrive, I would be ready. I decided to name her Cathy.

The day that craigslist user cathoarder347 brought Cathy to my door, I called in sick to work. What else could I do? Nothing could remove me from her twitching tail, her button nose or her frisky ears.  I followed her everywhere as she explored, camcorder rolling. That night she fell asleep in my arms, and the feelings of choking elation in my chest must have been love. I just know it.

The next three years are a happy blur, and I have a fur covered scrapbook that meows when opened to prove it.
But then something changed. Cathy started nipping my ankles. She wouldn't let me bathe her in the kitchen sink anymore. Instead of helping me pick out her bonnet and booties to wear for her daily picture, she tore them off with her sharp little teeth, and I swear to the Heavens, she was chuckling.

Cathy wasn't my baby kitten anymore. Cathy was a Cateenager.

She turned into a hunter. I would wake up in the middle of the night to her pouncing on my face and clawing at my nose. She would stalk my legs as I walked to the bathroom, and I swear she once ate one f my toe nails in a vicious little game of "catch my toes". I began to show up to work with scratches and on little sleep. Ho could I explain to my co-workers that the love of my life was not so sweet anymore? They would never understand a grown and brawny man taking abuse like I was. But I loved Cathy.

Once I swear I tied to have her de-clawed, but in an attempted to get her into her kennel, she clawed and bit and scratched so hard I feebly gave up. Cathy was the boss. I could never hurt that darling, but she could hurt me.

Things got worse and worse until the day she left. I sat trembling under my kitchen table while the cat stalked around the kitchen floor. I noticed her wide cat eyes watching the window. Her tail beckoned me forwards and I crawled towards her, limping. She looked me deep in the eyes and her cat fangs retracted. I knew. Cathy wasn't mine anymore at all. She was a wild housecat, an animal, and she needed to be hunting in the outskirts of my small suburban development. I crawled forward and opened my kitchen door to the wild for Cathy. Her cat lips parted in a smile, she slunk past me and, parting to sniff and give a sand-papery lick to one of my neck wounds, was gone.

I watched that cat's tail until it was nothing but a sliver in the distance. I never saw Cathy again.

The next 3 weeks were spent drunk. Often times I could be found laying face down on my own lawn, (my only showers at that time? the morning sprinklers) slurring and sobbing and crying and calling out that cursed creatures name. "Cathy! Cathy!"

Things shaped up, of course they did. How could they not? You can't let your life go to pieces over the fickle love of a flighty feline.

I shaved, experienced the 3 corresponding weeks of hangover and made myself a profile on christiansingles.org.

When asked about Cathy these days, I get a far away look in my eyes and reply "I would have loved her if I didn't hate her so much".

The ladies eat it up like fancy feast.