Cats. Yuck.
Where to begin?
I can't say my dear wife is a "cat" person or a "dog" person. Oh no. She is straight up an "any animal" person.
Here's a small insight into her psyche. Recently, she wanted a Great Dane. we have small dogs, and we have big dogs. She particularly likes big dogs. I said, in return, I'll agree to the Dane if you agree that I get to slaughter 3 of the cows. This being particularly important to me given the fact that we have 5 cows, which, if you're counting, is 1 more than members currently residing in our household. And you'll agree, I believe, that more than one cow per household member is excessive.
After weeks of attempted negotiation, she finally - angrilly - relented.
I shot the first cow in the head and it was hanging in my cooler before you could say, "ruh roh." Before the Dane puppy was even picked out.
The next cow bit it two weeks later when my wife was drawn away unexpectedly to an overseas bit.
The third one I traded off the property for a future interest in a cow, figuring with 2 cows left and about 200 pounds of meat in the freezers, we'd survive the coming Russian invasion that the MSM keeps warning us about.
But what do cows have to do with cats? Good question.
As much as she likes cows, she likes cats more. And we have a barn, so naturally we have barn cats.
But cats, notwithstanding their nasty, filthy habits and their inability to learn simple tasks, can readily discern that the house is better than the barn.
And so the war began.
And I've spent the last 10 years resisting every effort of cats and wife and daughters to sneak the cats into the house.
If it's really cold outside? Like 10 below o F? "Can we bring them in the basement? Just in the basement?" Then they tear up my insulation, $h1t on the floor, "mark" here and there, and generally wreck stuff. And they sneak upstairs, and I find them curled up on top of my clean, folded laundry.
But I hate two things about cats the most - 1. they walk on surfaces on which I prepare food. That is an absolute deal killer, and anybody who wants one of these filthy things walking around their duece-dropbox and then walking on their kitchen counters and dining room tables is more filthy than the filthy cats, and 2. Apparently, I've been informed, using a length of 2x4 to smash the cat off said counter Bryce Harper style is not allowable under the applicable state statutes, which, for the life of me, I cannot fathom.
I loathe cats.
I have successfully - albeit temporarily - banned them from my house. The old one - April - the only one I ever didn't loathe - was just diagnosed with feline leukemia, and we had to put her down, and by "we" I mean "I". Adding to my general dislike of cats, neither my Wife nor my daughter had the grit or sense to bring the cat in to get it checked and put down, as it was clear was needed. So, gentle reader I - ME - had to bring the filthy thing in, get the bad news on the incurable, untreatable infection, and order the put down. Thanks ladies.
With grandma cat gone, and a family visit recently that necessitated the "temporary" exclusion of The Bat Cat, from the house for allergy reasons, it is now only me, the hermit crabs, the snakes, and the half dozen dogs.
I have won - the battle. But the war rages.
My wife has taken to feeding the cats . . . on the porch. You know, because it's easier than walking out to the barn. I have taken to shooing them off the porch, dumping their water over, throwing their food to the chickens, and, my coup de grace, I'm in the process of obtaining a giant super-soaker, which use for shooing cats should be quite obvious.
They'll keep coming. I know. They're like rats in that regard. They show up. Tiny little trying-to-be-cute things with streaming eyes, snotty noses, and a worm load that would make the fat chick in Eraserhead wet. My wife and daughter will take them in, because it's "the right thing do," or some crap like that.
But I'll keep fighting. Always.
Meow.