It was a relaxing summer evening at la casa. I was on my computer catching up with the blog posts of the day and watching Friends reruns, the guy was snoozing, and the cats were outside as they had just spent an hour freaking me the hell out with their phantom chasing in the house.
Do you have cats? Do they jump and attack stuff out of thin air? I thought so.
You see, I’ve never owned a cat. I grew up with dogs. And although I have learned to love our boys, there are some things that I just can’t get used to.
I don’t know what possessed me to go and let the cats in around midnight. We usually let them out for a few hours to explore and play a while before bedtime and I figured I’d let them in for some couch cuddle time before I went to bed.
I opened the door and one, then two cats came sauntering in and headed straight for the food bowls as usual.
What happened next will haunt my dreams for all of eternity.
I locked the door and walked over to the living room. That’s when I saw it. A furry gray mass with a naked black tale dangling from the mouth of that son of a bitch.
George had brought in a rat. Shut up. It was a rat. Not a mouse, a RAT. You weren’t there.
I panicked and immediately ran to the bedroom to wake up Brian who was completely dead to the world. I yelled and screamed and shook him until he jumped horizontally out of the bed in an ironically cat-like manner with a look of horror as if though the zombie invasion was happening at that very moment.
It took a minute for him to register just what was happening and in that moment, while we both walked out to the living room, George, the bastard murder cat, dropped the RAT, don’t correct me again, out of his mouth. Of course the RAT did what any RAT would do and scurried frantically toward our feet making both of us scream like kindergarteners.
George, naturally, ran after it, grabbing it once again in his blood dripped fangs (ok, maybe not that dramatically, but I’m still quite traumatized as I write this) and carried it back to the family room where he proceeded to play and taunt it while we screamed obscenities at him.
Just an FYI, cats don’t understand “take that outside you murderous asshole!” So don’t waste your time.
At this point, we’re both standing on top of the couches, broom and box in hand hoping to pull some type of Cirque de soleil shit to capture this thing so our faces wouldn’t get eaten while we slept.
FYI- Rats will not surrender or pause for you to throw a box over them. They just keep running until they hide behind your bookshelf.
For the next 20 minutes we stood on the couches brainstorming ways to remove the RAT from the house without getting the bubonic plague; never taking our eyes off the bookshelf. Well except to take a few pictures of the whole ordeal. You’re welcome.
Finally we decided we needed ammunition. The guy left for Walmart to buy artillery while I stood guard at the bookshelf until his return. While I waited, this mutha fucking size of my goddamn hand spider pops out.
Really? Really. Apparently I missed the “It’s zoo day at our house” memo. So now, I’m standing on the couch monitoring two creatures who are plotting to kill us. Or something to that effect. Again, I’m still traumatized.
20 minutes later (I’m still on the couch with my broom) and Brian gets home with the weaponry which included a mouse trap that was way too small for the beast, and some sticky pads which eventually did the trick making me burst into tears because when I see him all trapped and squealing, and Brian points out how fast his little heart is beating, I am suddenly a blubbering fool who cannot watch the rest.
Moral of the story? Cats are fucking murderers. Get a dog.
Spielberg couldn’t make this shit up,