My Cats Want Me Dead

I love my cats. Impy is an adorable little kitten we rescued out from under a neighbors stoop. Fluffy is Impy's mother, and was rescued that day, as well. Panther (who isn't black, but orange) was abandonded by a newly engaged couple. Apparently the new guy was allergic to cats. And finally, Toulouse, who was adopted by Donna and I. Like any parent, a loving pet owner could talk endlessly about their "children." I could, too, so I'll move on.

I just want there to be written evidence of my premonition, which is that my cats are trying to kill me. While taking a load of wash down to the basement, arms laden with socks, shirts, and underwear, Impy bolted by my feet and I tripped. By some miracle, I fell into the side wall instead of dead ahead, and thus survived. Then she just looked up at me, so innocent and cute, and my anger immediately disappeared. I stopped the bleeding on my elbow and put ice on my knee, and she purred and purred.

Something like this happens every day, without exception. Usually several times a day. But my premonition is about the flight of stairs between the first and second floors of my flat. It's really steep, and if one of those fucking cats gets the "foot fly-by" timed right, I'm a goner. And, like a terrorist, they only have to succeed once. Meanwhile, I have to be vigilant.

Panther, Toulouse and Impy are all guilty of the attempted murderous stair trip-up. Fluffy has a different strategy. She hides in the glass cabinet and tries to give you a heart attack when you reach for something. She almost got my brother Kent that way. And since I'm up very late most nights, Toulouse and Impy use my fondness for a dark, quiet room while writing to scare the fuck out of me. Sometimes, I'm sitting here at my desk, focused on the monitor, and all is quiet for an hour or two. Then, suddenly, a cat flings itself onto the keyboard from out of the darkness. When I regain consciousness, I'm usually not mad, just happy to be alive. And they are free to try again.

The question is, "why?" Why the hell do they want me dead? I'm such a good pet owner. They hae plenty of food, and love, and grooming and all that. The only reason that comes to mind is this: They want to get outside, and they see me as an obstacle. How do I make it clear to them that killing me won't get them outside, it will only make them homeless. Or, at best, in the care of friends like Clare, Melanie and Donna. Hmmm, maybe that's it. Clare, Melanie and Donna all live in a house, with a yard, and they sometimes let their cats out. Donna is 3,000 miles away, and already has three cats. Clare and Melanie have plenty o' cats, too, so they would have a hard time taking them in.

Or maybe it's more abstract than that. All they know is that it will be easier to get out with me out of the way. Oh, man. I feel like I'm in an abusive relationship. But as I said, if I go flying down the stairs and bounce off the front door, look to the cats...the cats did it.