Because this is the internet I know there’s only one thing you want, and I’m going to give it to you.
No, you perv. Also, while we’re on the subject, please stop calling them boobies.
No, what you really want is cat posts! Trust me, I’ve done the research.
Plus, Alexander Hamilton is floofy and awesome and his favorite thing is to be held and his favorite friend is everyone (though he makes sure to especially snuggle me, as is his duty) so he’s what I want to talk about today. Sorry, non-cat-people, you’ll just have to suffer in silence.
First of all, if you don’t follow me on Instagram you missed the big day: Ham’s first walkies in the snow. Yes, I walk the cat. As I mentioned before, Ham was in at least one home before ours, and that home returned him after only three months, claiming he “kept getting out.”* Now, I am a Greyhound Person—we worship at the church of Shut the Fucking Door! and roll our eyes pretty hard at the idea that a cat kept outsmarting this system—so my first thought was that this problem was not really a problem. Step 1: Shut the fucking door; Step 2: Train the cat to walk on a leash so he knows he can go out sometimes, but only ever when he’s got his harness and leash and a responsible grown-up.
Ham is a big fan of Step 2.
He’s not so keen on Step 1—he’s actually got a thing about doors, in that he wants all of them to be open, always. Especially the interior doors (he does seem to understand why I keep the Outside locked up, though we sometimes disagree on Visiting Hours) and, as he is a Talkative Cat, this makes for some interesting discussions.
HIM: (to Ham) Let’s get you away from the door…
ME: But doors are his thing!
HIM: (to Ham) Doors are not your thing. (slips out)
ALEXANDER HAMILTON: (disagrees, loudly)
HIM: (from other side of the door) Thumbs up if doors are your thing!
Ham is BFF’s with both of our dogs and cuddles and loves on them regularly—our hounds are cat friendly and were excited to meet a cat who was so doglike—but Husband’s stupid cat (whom you’ve met before) is still being super bitchy to him. I suspect she’s intimidated.
You see, we’re 90% sure my tiny lion is mostly Maine coon (based on size, build, certain features, temperament, and the fact that I had to drag him away from playing in the toilet) while the stupid cat is half Scottish fold, half Basset hound, and—according to Husband—half turtle. (I suspect she’s a descendent of Jabba the Hutt, but Husband argues that’s just her turtle heritage.)
So it’s understandable that a “cat” who is only considered a cat because she can sometimes retract her claws might be jealous of a mighty mini lion who can point to actual feline ancestors.
We keep trying to help, but…
ME: (petting Ham) Bring her over.
HIM: (brings Stupid Cat) See? Isn’t Ham nice? (pets her)
STUPID CAT: (rolls over onto back for belly rubs)
ALEXANDER HAMILTON: (is confused by SC)
HIM: (to SC) Be normal. (stops belly rubs)
SC: (can’t roll off her back)
ME: That’s not a cat.
HIM: (laughing) Oh my god, she really isn’t.
ME: I’m so sorry, Ham.
A. HAM: (sniffs SC) Mrrt? (can’t even, leaves)
ME: Did you see the disgust on his face?
HIM: Let’s go. (walks away)
ME: Yep. (follows)
ME: (turns back) Look at her!
HIM: I’m pretty sure if we did a DNA test, it would come back “loaf of bread.”
* I’ve had him a while now, and while he’s definitely right there at the door if you don’t say anything, it’s not like he’s bolting out past your ankles while you juggle groceries… I suspect these people had lazy kids who couldn’t remember to close the door and blamed the cat for catting.