I found this while wandering the backrooms of the internet: it’s called I’m a Lesbian Who Hates Cats. I’m Going to Die Alone. It might win a little something like the most accurate title of the year but that’s about it. The rest of the piece is just plainly bad and in bad need of a takedown. If you’re good with that sort of thing, follow past the jump!
Also, let me go on the record here: I don’t hate dogs. My parents were dog people. But the author seems to think that dogs are better than cats. I’ve been around dogs for a good portion of my life and believe me when I say, there are some ill-behaved, untrained canines out there. At least four of them belonged to my parents. With that said, let’s begin.
So we start out with someone who seems to be unlucky in love. Apparently, she’s got a bit of a list of “deal breakers”, including:
If you are …
In a band and serious about it.
Self-loathing/not out of the closet/a Trump voter.
A birthday monster (someone who refers to their “birthday week” or “birthday month” and is “ha-ha, kidding!” but not at all kidding).
Someone who does improv.
Someone who actually just needs a mommy.
Or you are …
Bad at basic living, such as shopping for groceries, cooking or cleaning.
Born into major financial privilege and pretending to be broke.
A militant vegan.
Someone who posts excessively on social media about CrossFit, yoga or marathons.
All of these mean it’s just not going to work.
Already, we’re on some shaky ground here. Some of these are pretty reasonable–the born into money thing I can understand–but others are ridiculous. (“A gamer”? That takes a lot of people out of the equation here! Don’t even get me started on the “in a band” or “does improv” thing.) Now, I understand that everyone has their own likes and dislikes, but some of these seem pretty random. And confusing. But whatever. I didn’t write this and we’ll just soldier onward.
Then after a particularly bad date, she’s with a friend in a bar and sharing a drink. Her list comes up and number 29 is “Loves cats and has a cat that only lives inside/has more than one cat.”
This is when her friend tells her, “You’re going to die alone.” The author admits this. And then she launches into the reasons as to why cats are a deal breaker. The reasons aren’t exactly great. Such as:
No cat is play-attacking you, my friends. There is only attacking and not-attacking, and I am consistently amazed at the number of people who think it’s cute to be pounced on in the dark, in your own home, by something with razor-wire claws.
I have never experienced this. I am not kidding. None of my cats has play attacked. Now the damn dog my parents insisted that we keep? She’d pounce on me every single time I’d go for the phone. She weighed about fifty pounds and was mostly muscle. I was a wiry teenager with weak ankles. Yes, that stupid dog nearly knocked me over multiple times. My parents thought that this was the height of hilarity. I never found it funny at all.
Cats don’t love you. They don’t. It has been proven. They are narcissistic serial killers who are manipulating you with their every move. They’re not excited when you come home from work or a trip; in fact, they punish you for leaving by peeing on soft surfaces or destroying the first couch you ever bought that wasn’t from Ikea.
About that: Here’s some science, telling you that you are full of shit. You are reading that correctly. Your cat loves you more than food. The reason the cat stays with you? Because it wants to be there. In other words, the cat chose you. Unlike a dog, which needs someone to do everything under the sun for it, the cat is staying with you because it actually gives a damn. It wants to be with you.
Cats don’t miss their owners? Sure, I believe ya, but YouTube don’t:
Then, there was the family dog, who outright ignored my parents after we all came home from a trip to Disney World. I do not kid. The dog barely looked at my mother and father, she was so pissed off at them. I’m surprised she even ate what was placed in front of her that evening. That same night, a local pawn shop not far from the house was robbed; the dog decided to protect me and my friend from high school and left my parents–who fed her and took care of her–high and dry. So much for canine loyalty.
Cats mirror bad relationships. They ghost you. You want your cat to love you, so you feed your cat special food it likes; you brush it, you clean up after it and try really hard to win its affection, and in the end — where’s the cat? The cat has been on the top shelf of the closet, sleeping, for 11 hours; the cat doesn’t care. Cats string you along with tiny rewards — a burst of purring on the couch, a 20-second “making biscuits” chest massage (claws can absolutely be felt, but isn’t he sweet!) — and keep you emotionally invested in the relationship.
Actually, every cat I’ve owned has been affectionate; they are loving but not so needy that I have to hover over them constantly. They were quiet. They would share my bed and not hog the entire mattress. Now the dogs my parents kept? Dear Primus, that was a terrible relationship.
There was letting the dog out at 3am because if we didn’t there would be poop on the floor. There was the puddles of barf on the kitchen floor because the dog just had to snack on grass while she took a walk. There was the constant hair tumbleweeds in the house because all of the dogs had medium lengthed coats and they all shed. At once. And constantly. You couldn’t wear socks in the house at all, as they would end up black due to all of the dog fur. The shed hair was so pernicious that some of it ended up sliding its way under one of the soles of my feet. I remember having a pain in my foot, sitting down and looking and seeing a small black strand jutting outwards. I’m still not sure how that happened, I just remember having to slowly pull a strand of dog hair out of my foot. It hurt like hell, believe me.
There was one of the family dogs who was so damned stupid that she would eat rocks–she would stand in her pen and chew the blasted things up while staring me full in the face as I yelled at her to knock it off–then poop them out. There was the fact that I couldn’t talk on the phone during certain daylight and evening hours because the dogs had no idea what the hell the words “shut up” meant and they would bark. Constantly. You couldn’t hear anything over the sounds of them shrieking. There was the fact that no one could sleep past six in the morning because all four of the dogs would start screaming to be let outside. Oh, but according to my mother they were “so well behaved” and “so sweet”.
No, they were never given any real obedience training and it showed. I guess that’s rather obvious, isn’t it?
Seriously, the noise machines–Prime’s nickname for dogs in general–that my parents had were so damn stupid that you had to tell them what to do. They didn’t even know why they were in the backyard half of the time; Mom had to yell at them, “Go pee, dammit!” before they would move. If she didn’t, the dog would stand and stare at the back door with a blank expression on its face. This is not an exaggeration or a joke.
If that’s not a dysfunctional relationship, then I have no idea what is. But hey, if you like dysfunction and think taking care of something that is borderline codependent, well then a dog might be perfect for you!
People who really love cats are masochists; they’re so happy to be even acknowledged by their evil-yet-adorable pets that they will keep taking care of them indefinitely, aware they’re being used. Aware that they’re being exposed to bacteria and the incredible nastiness that is cat litter and still O.K. with their end of the bargain.
Ever been licked by a dog? Here’s poop on your face! Again, that isn’t a joke: At least two of the dogs we had when I was a teen ate poop. The puppies that my mother’s prized Shepard had? All three of them snacked on poop. Then there was Elvira who, as mentioned above, ATE FUCKING ROCKS. ROCKS.
These were not intelligent animals. I’m surprised they could even breathe on their own. And that’s not going into how dogs are absolutely the neediest things on the planet. They can’t go outside to relieve themselves on their own. Put them outside and they would stare at the screen door, wondering what they were supposed to do in the backyard. My cats used the litter box and didn’t demand a walk at four thirty in the morning. If one of them needed something, she’d scratch her stainless steel bowl with one claw out, ringing it like a bell. She’d only do this if she needed food or water. The cat I own now is trained and can sit on command. He’ll get into his crate on command. The dogs I lived with while in my teens and twenties? Not so much.
Granted, this wasn’t the dogs’ fault but it didn’t make them any easier to tolerate.
Maybe this is what’s really behind No. 29 on my list of deal breakers: Truly loving cats means hating yourself. And that’s a quality I cannot accept in dates. But message me if you’re a dog person.
Okay, here’s science, saying you’re full of shit again. Funny how that goes. But do go on. This sort of exercise seems to scream self-flagellation on multiple levels and you rather seem to enjoy that.