Confessions of A Naughty Girl

The Attack of Pussy Magoo - Part Two

Okay, so there never really was a Part One to this story...at least not one that I posted.

Do you believe in divine intervention? Do you believe in signs? Not like that awful Joaquin Phoenix movie "Signs", but subtle signs that either guide or reinforce you to behave a certain way or make certain decisions?

The idea of getting a pet has plagued me for months. I'm at a pretty stable, good place in my life right now - a place where I have settled (slightly), and am looking for some good old unconditional love. In order to fulfill this wish, I can either get a boyfriend or a pet. Pets seem like less work.

I adore dogs, and have wanted one ever since we had to give our Shar Pei to the cleaning lady when I was in high school because he kept eating squirrels and running away. And while I am settled, I am not settled enough to take in a sweet little puppy that needs to shit every five minutes, preferably on my still-relatively-new, expensive Storehouse furniture. So friends and co-workers alike have urged me to get a cat.

My problems with getting a cat are plenty. First of all, my main cat reference is my sister's cat Milo, who has been diagnosed with social anxiety disorder. Now how a cat can have a mental disorder is just beyond me. Shouldn't cats just eat and play and sleep and poop? That little f*cker is the spawn of the devil. He hisses and bites everyone except for my sister, and spends his days waddling his fat little ass in between the windowsill in her living room to nap and the windowsill in her kitchen to eat her plants. Worthless bastard.

I'm also wary of cats because they're not as fun to play with. Face it, cats think that they are God's gift to you, and not vice versa. And frankly, I have dealt with enough people who have felt that they're God's gift. The last thing I need is a cocky animal playing hard to get with me. F*ck that.

Anyway, so a couple of months ago, I fed a stray cat in my apartment building for a good couple of weeks. She was a sweet little thing that kept hanging around my apartment, and I felt bad, so I'd always come home and leave a little bowl of sumthin'-sumthin' for her to eat. She would wait for me to come home, eat/drink, beg to come in, and get shut out and leave. I suppose I was being a bit of a pet-owning cocktease, but I really didn't know where the hell she had been, so I was scared to take her in. Finally, one day, she got tired of the games and left. Or maybe she died, I don't know.

It was during this time that I named her Pussy Magoo. I am a big fan of calling people by their first and last names (especially if I like them), and she was so sweet that I had to give her a full name. She was a cat, and she was mysterious. Hence, Pussy Magoo.

I started thinking about adopting a "real" cat (not a "fake" stray cat) seriously again a few weeks ago, but chickened out. I had just as soon tossed this idea into the wind until tonight. Picture it: I am on the phone, discussing Laguna Beach with a friend. I realize there is a little draft coming from the balcony, so I walk over to the door to make sure it's shut. I open the door and notice a f*cking cat sitting in my porch chair, shivering in this Godforesaken 50 degree weather. (Seriously, it's cold. I had to put my ass warmer on in the car today. Bad news.)

Aughhhhhhhh! Attack of Pussy Magoo 2!

This is not the same cat from a few weeks ago, but a scrawny little tabby boy cat that I noticed crossing the street as I was leaving the parking lot of my building this morning. The amazing thing about this whole story is this - there is no entryway into my enclosed balcony, and I live on the 2nd floor. Meaning that the Divine Being from above somehow boarded this cat onto its Concorde and catapulted it into my lawn chair. If this isn't a sign, I don't know what the hell is.

Not wanting to scare the cat or make any rash movements, I screamed loudly to my poor friend over the phone and slammed the door shut. Pussy Magoo 2 didn't bat an eyelash. He just sat there, and I just stared at him through the window. We were having quite the staredown. I mean, it was intense. Finally, he sidled up to the window and meowed at me through it for a good five minutes. I yelled back, "Get off of my f*cking porch...you dirty gonorrhea cat" over and over. I didn't want to rescue him because again, I had no idea where he had been, but I also didn't want to walk outside and kick him, because that's just mean.

After the longest five minutes of my life (and that includes some intimate experiences), he finally ran over to the side of the balcony and jumped. I felt lower than low. After all, what kind of a compassionate human being lets a stray cat commit suicide over her balcony? I immediately opened the door and stepped onto the balcony, and realized that he had just jumped to an open window ledge a few feet away (but still on the second floor - miraculous), and was doing just fine, so I ran back into the house Napoleon-style and slammed the door shut.

And I'm actually totally sober and drug-free right now. Seriously.

This whole strange encounter with the gonorrhea cat that tried to commit suicide from my balcony has me thinking about adopting a cat yet again. I think I could be really good to it. I wouldn't kick it or hurt it or anything, and I definitely wouldn't call it a gonorrhea cat unless I busted him having sex with his girlfriend in my bedroom if I came home from work unexpectedly one day. Plus, it's really good practice for 20 years from now when I have kids and have to be a good mom and stuff.

I don't know. I'm so confused.

posted by KA @ 9:55 PM