Because I’ll going to kill that cat someday.
Ok, that’s not true. I like animals in general, and I even like him sometimes. Today, though, I’m home early with a terrible, sick headache after yet another sleepless night spent sharing a bedroom with an animal who wants me dead.
I know he does. I can hear him whispering in the wee hours.
“If I had opposable thumbs, you’d be dead now. It would be just me and him, and I’d be sleeping on your pillow. I hate you.”
He says that, I swear. He also snores like my grandfather, has long slurpy baths and stands in the middle of the night rattling his claws on the doorframe. Not scratching, just rattling his claws back and forth on the wood to make noise. And me, the lightest sleeper in the world, the one who cannot get back to sleep if woken up, hears him every time.
I hate him.
I’ve just swallowed two vicodan and four ibuprofen. If I die, I know that he’ll make a pretty good attempt at trying to eat me before Phil gets home, just because it would amuse him and would also meet some warped cat sense of poetic justice. He’s an evil beast.
I hate him so much.