Mike’s Scratching Post

It might be a disconcerting thing to leave someone in charge of your animals, and then read a note penned by them on social media, or possibly in a deranged blog post, declaring hatred for the wards in their charge.

I could never do such a thing, as I love all creatures on this planet equally.

But let me ask you this question…

Have you ever had the urge to punch a cat in the face?

Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean this as an action to literally follow through on. I’m just talking about a brief flash of imaginative possibility — wondering how satisfying it might feel to sock Mr. Mittens square in the puss.

Yes, I’m a monster, I know.

What could possibly drive an adult human to consider such ghastly violence against a loveable, helpless creature?

I have no idea, but I’ll make a hypothetical guess…

The fucking meowing!

Dear Jesus, why doesn’t it stop!


(click play, and continue reading)


Perhaps this is the point I fess up that, yes, there are a few animals currently staring me down as I type this. I’d move to another room, but that would give them an opportunity to tangle themselves in my feet. I used to think their random darting underfoot was an attempt to garner affection, but now I know they secretly want to see me land on my face.

Don’t let the cuteness fool you, they know what they’re doing.

But instead of letting my violent urges get the best of me, I channeled my energies in a nobler direction — I became an active listener.

And, because of my patience, I’ve made an incredible breakthrough.

By documenting each instance of meowing, carefully noting the subtle nuances in tone, pitch, urgency, and body language, I’ve effectively learned to speak “cat.”

If anyone out there has ever felt frustration around a “loquacious” feline, let me share with you some key insight on what goes through their heads. Though this work is still preliminary, the following information should help dispel any violent tendencies you may have of your own, giving you a better understanding of Fluffy, Duke, Whiskers, or whatever other stupid name you call your animal.

Ready? Here’s a short list to get you started. Stick it on your fridge for quick reference in times of crisis:

(cat meowing on floor)
“I’m fucking hungry.”

(cat meowing on floor after eating)
“I’m still fucking hungry.”

(cat meowing after you pick it up)
“Maybe now you can hear me. I’m fucking hungry.”

(cat meowing in litter box)
“I just emptied my bowels, chief, that means I’ve got room for more food. Break out the Seafood Pate, asshole, I’m fucking hungry!”

(cat meowing on table)
“Feed me, bastard!”

(cat meowing on kitchen counter)
“Feed me, slut!”

(cat meowing at door)
“Look, if you’re not gonna give me more food, lemme out. I’ll go kill a bird or something, you stingy prick.”

(cat meowing at window to come in)
“Yeah, I know, I’ve only been outside 30 seconds, but the bird thing was too much work. Open the fucking door and feed me!”

(cat meowing while it eats)
“Get another bowl ready, cuz I’m gonna puke this up in about 20 seconds.”

(cat purring at your feet)
“Tricked you! I’m not really happy to see you, I’m fucking hungry.”

Another way I curb violent tendencies is by immersing myself in writing.

An entire poem came to me moments ago, as if the ghost of Robert Frost were whispering it right in my ear. It goes like this…

You meow in the morning,
So I feed you some food,
You meow after eating,
Just to fuck with my mood.

You meow at the door,
Like your freedom’s denied.
I open it up,
Then you meow more outside.

You scratch at the glass,
And you meow even more,
I let you come in,
Then you’re back at the door.

You meow and you meow,
And you meow once again,
You meow in the kitchen,
And meow in the den.

Meow and meow
And meow and meow,
Meow meow meow meow,
Meow meow meow meow.

That poem was entitled, “Feed me, asshole,” though it reminds me of a commercial I remember from childhood. Fuck, I hated that commercial.

Aside from a little fun ranting, I have to admit I actually do like our feline friends.

When I went outside today for a walk in the beautifully warm sun, one of the cats darted between my feet, in yet another premeditated attempt to trip me.

But before I had a chance to get mad, the furball rolled on his back, paws in the air, and glared up at me quizzically, cocking his head. It was so cute and ridiculous that I couldn’t help but smile, quietly laughing aloud.

Then I punched him in the face.

What's on your mind?