As some of you may know, I share DJWriter World Headquarters with two little bastard felines. Since they don't get along with our dog on the first floor, they live down the hall from my swanky top-floor office. Despite my sympathy for cougars, I think the world would be a better place without household cats. I utterly despise them, and I'm embarrassed to admit that I live with them, lest someone think otherwise.
It's bad enough that these particular cats once belonged to my wife's sitzpinkler ex. Sometimes I think he O.D.'d and died just to curse me with their presence. Now they are getting older (not fast enough -- those damn things live forever), and the vet told my wife to feed them canned food to help keep them hydrated. Needless to say, it reeks to high heaven. The stink drifts right down the hall, casting a fetid pall over my office. Additionally, the cats regularly regurgitate those malodorous meals on my floor.
Sadly, I'm used to all of that, so that's not why they are today's bastards.
I came home from the grocery store -- where I even bought @#$%& canned cat food -- to find one of the cats comfortably snuggled in a pair of my cycling shorts! Oh, how cute! Yeah, and how convenient that the cat is football-sized because I wanted to punt that little bastard into the next county. Instead, I just yelled at her until she ran away. Tonight (just minutes ago, in fact), the little bastard did it again. This time I launched her decisively across my office and out the door. One might suggest that I put my cycling shorts elsewhere, but that would be surrender. I'll just keep smacking her until she takes the hint.
Only one cat has been in my shorts, but I'm giving this award to both so the other won't feel neglected. I loathe them with all my canine-lovin' heart.