Yes. I Did It.

20 Sep

Remember my revenge fantasy about peeing on the Family’s suede sofa?  Well, I did it.  Not only did I do it…I saturated the thing over the course of two days.  Now let me just say that Owner Woman has a sense of smell that borders on circus-freaky.  If a mouse takes a dump in France, she smells it and starts hollering about how she can’t take the stink and the anguish.  So imagine, if you will, the reaction when she caught wind of that ammonia soaked suede.

If her reaction had been video-taped, I’d be starring  in one of those pitiful abused animal infomercials with that rapidly-aging sister of Roseanne’s.  For a fraction of a second, I basked in the glow of her seething.  Then I started to feel the pain.  You know how they say that it don’t hurt when you hold a cat by the scruff of the neck?  That’s a load of donkey dung right there.  Especially if the Owner Woman just got her ghetto nails did.  I avoided eye-contact while she read me the riot act on her way to the back door.

“What is WRONG with you, you stupid filthy animal!  Why do you pee?!  What’s WRONG with you?  I’ve had it, Tess. I’ve had it.  You better find that thug son of yours and HOPE to god in the sky he can teach you some street slang so you don’t get whipped and thrown in a drainage ditch somewhere.”

Then I got tossed.  Actually “tossed” is too kind.  It was more like being drop-kicked by a steroid-filled high school football player who was on probation for failing Bible class.  I flew, people.

So anyway.  I snuck back inside today when Shorty left the door open and checked my email, peed in the guest room and whipped out this blog post here.  I’d better get myself back outside and down the street.  While indoors, I noticed a bottle of Midol on the counter…so now ain’t the time to be messing around with Owner Woman.

I’m just tired.  So darn tired.  But let me just say this……

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My Idiot Son

17 Sep

I’d like to first explain that my chronic depression is a direct result of the Owners having me fixed five seconds after I dropped a load of babies.  This stroke of genius got me permanently stuck in post-partum depression and there’s no reversing this.

Anyway.  I dropped a load of babies when I was less than a year old.  My babies’ Daddy could’ve been Tyrone….but it turned out being Jerome.  Of course, Jerome split….but Tyrone stuck around.  He talked about being a daddy for the kids and what a good provider he’d be.  I promptly informed him that if Owner Woman didn’t get rid of these babies at first light, then I’d be pushing them down the sewer drain.

Owner Woman did me a solid and wound up getting rid of all those nasty younguns….with the exception of one.  The boy.  Shorty had fallen in love with him and the Family had decided he was staying.  Fine.  Let him stay.  He’d walk thru the room and I’d back-hand him in the face.  Snarl, hiss, spit.  The idiot wouldn’t even fight back.  I’d dump his food out, pee in his water bowl…hoping he’d get a clue and realize he was BEYOND unwanted.

Owner Woman didn’t let a day go by without reminding me that I had ceased to be a pet and had become nothing but a moral obligation….and that I was the most wretched mother in the animal kingdom.  Whatever, lady.  YOUR offspring runs around naked eating string cheese and looks like she just crawled up out of a watering hole in South Africa.  So don’t judge me.

After a few month of abuse, my idiot son took a dump in my food bowl and ran off with a pack of feral cats that are on the 10 Most Wanted Feline Ne’er-Do-Wells list.  I see him every now and then.  About two months ago, he brought his raggedy heffer around and had the gaul and audacity to do the nasty with her right in my front yard.  Like I said.  Idiot.

All this remembering has swirled up some anger….so I’m off to pee all over the Owner’s new suede sofa.  That should make for an interesting post in a few days.  *snicker snicker HISSS*

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The Garbage Man Steals

16 Sep

Let me tell you what went down here this afternoon.  Thursday is trash day.  My ‘hood has a crackerjack team of trash people who don’t even try to hide the fact that they root through your trash for unmentionables and old un-shredded bank statements.

SIDENOTE:  From here on out, I will refer to my owners as Owner Man, Owner Woman and Shorty.

Most Thursdays, I sprawl out under Owner Woman’s car and watch them…all shifty eyed and dirty.  And hollerin’.  Would someone PLEASE give me the 4-1-1 on why the trash folks have to bang on the side of the truck and holler some tribal secret message “Gettonlittledaw-GEE” at the top of their trashy lungs.  Anyway, this morning I noticed some shady business going on with Trash Man #1.  He’d done dumped the trash and put the can back….yet he loitered.  I’m highly suspicious of a loiterer.  It took me about five seconds to realize he was casing the joint.  That’s street-speak for he was fixing to straight steal some thangs.

Obviously Trash Man #1 had done this before.  I saw him whip out his cell phone and the convo that went down was something like this:

“Yeah.  This Darnell.  Hey.  We got a goody here.  (Pause)  Look like it brand new.  (Pause)  Naw, I seen her.  She stupid as hell….I ain’t studdin her.  Okay, den…okay.  Yeah, yeah.  Later mane.”

I might be depressed but I’m not ignorant.  They were plotting to steal Owner Man’s brand spanky new riding mower out the carport!  Owner Woman must’ve seen the whole thing out the kitchen window, because here she came in her sweat-pants.

“Hey!  HEY!  Bring your trashy self back here!  You BEST not be lookin to take anything from up in here!  My husband knows the city commissioner and I’ll have him make some calls and you can bet your nasty smellin butt that you’ll wake up unemployed owing back child support.  You hear me?!  I see you….I SEE YOU!”

Rock on, Owner Woman.  She sat in a lawn chair smack in the middle of the driveway the whole day, with her arms crossed, popping her gum and keeping her fingers all over her cell phone.  It was all too much for me.  Now my blood pressure is up, I’m anxious and I believe my bowel is starting to act up again.

Where my nerve pill at?

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Hi. I’m Tess. And I’m Depressed.

16 Sep

I’m Tess.  I stopped caring sometime around conception.  I must have had some kind of psychic insight into my future or something.  Truth be told, I shouldn’t have even been born.

My mama was one of those thick farm cats whose only purpose was to keep a horse farm free of vermin and pestulance.  But instead of exterminating her afternoons away, she became cross-eyed over a flea-infested Tom who happened to be “just passing through”…..until he realized my mama got free food and board.  Then he decided to hang around.

There were 9 of us.  Mama only had 7 titties…and out of those 7, only 4 of them worked halfway decent.  Because I was born with The Sadness, I moved slower than the others and after a couple of weeks of minor starvation, I was crowned the runt.

I took up residence in the back of an abandoned rabbit hutch while my siblings played around, got fat and spread around an eye infection.  We’d all been given shots and eye-drops, preparing us for some kind of transition out of the hutch.

Mama had gone back to her slinky ways and our pop had meandered off in the middle of the night.  He left a note stating that he just couldn’t bring himself to love a broke-tittied woman with 9 kids who needed eye ointment and butt salve twice a day. Who can blame him, really?  We were a sad, god forsaken lot, doomed to be featured as ‘FREE TO WHOEVER’.

There were 5 of us left when my soon-to-be People showed up.  A roughly middle-aged womand and her kid.  A very short kid.  I tried to blend in with the rusted chicken wire but I wasn’t fast enough.  The kid grabbed me by the throat and drug me through the straw, looking me square in the face while my remaining siblings snickered.  I’d heard about short people and how they liked to choke small animals stupid.

“Dis one!  Dis one!”

The short person had spoken.  They put me in a pink crate with a blankie and two toys that were twice my size.  During the ride to my new home, the short person bequeathed to me a name.  Tess.  Once inside, the woman threw some kibble up under my nose and muttered:

“You crap in this house, so help me gawd, I’ll throw you into the open door of a houseful of Mexicans and drive away.  I did it once, I’ll do it again.”

Somehow I believed her.

I’m Tess.  And if I wasn’t depressed before….I sure as heck am now.

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