Let me just start by saying I love cats. I've always loved cats and always had them as pets growing up. I'll even confess to occasionally dressing up my cats in little hats and sweaters as a child. Never, though, did I imagine I would become one of those people: the crazy cat ladies that everyone sort of feels sorry for but secretly believes might have human remains stored in their basement. Yeah, you know the ones I'm talking about.
It happened when I had to take my cat -- let's call her Cruella, to protect the innocent -- in for a check-up. She'd been the perpetrator in a horrifying incident the day before that involved the words "green," "projectile" and "diarrhea" that I won't go into in great detail but suffice is to say, there was a lot disinfectant and angry words thrown around that day.
So I take my cat to the vet and that's when it happened. I -- a 30-something childless woman -- referred to my cat as "my baby" to the receptionist when checking Cruella in at the front desk. I then went on to describe her illness using the words "tummykins" and "poo." During Cruella's rather undignified moments with a rectal thermometer, I patted her head and told her, "It's okay sweetie, mommy will get you treaties when we're done." And by "treaties," I did not mean binding legal agreements with foreign countries, I meant little chicken-shaped nummies -- yes, I used the word "nummies;" my condition is an illness, okay? -- that she sucks down like a Great White tucking into a buffet of seals. Oh but wait, it got even better -- while describing to the vet how Cruella gets car sick, I confessed my fear that the cat would be angry with me because usually when I take her in the car, "It's for a trip to Grandma and Grandpa's House and YOU LOVE GOING TO GRANDMA AND GRANDPA'S HOUSE DON'T YOU SWEETIE BEAR CUDDLE BOO MUFFIN NUM-NUM OH MY GOD WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME??!!"
And then my brain slid out my ear and fell to the floor where we all saluted it and said goodbye.
The visit to the vet ended with me agreeing to a $400 preventative surgery and exhibiting excitement at the fact that when it was over, my cat would be provided with a sweater.
I have become a crazy cat lady. I now fear for my sanity yet can't stop thinking about what color the cat sweater might be. I've decided, really, to just give up at this point, pack up the roller brush and just go out in public, fur-covered, with Cruella in that Baby Bjorn snuggly I've always considered buying and cutting a tail hole in. I may take her to Target in a stroller and feed her popcorn at the food counter just like all the other crazy mothers do with their children. Because, honestly, if I've gotten to the point of using the words "sweetie bear cuddle boo muffin num-num" as an adult female human, why bother fighting it? From here, it's a short step toward buying Precious Moments ornaments and wearing un-ironic holiday sweaters.
I'm doomed.
