If you're a cat owner, I have bad news. Your cat hates you.
"Oh no," you are saying. "You are wrong, Kilgore Trout. My Mr. Piddles loves me."
Excuse me while I make snorting noises and shake my head in a condescending fashion. Let us examine the undisputed evidence: Your cat pisses on the carpet, shreds the upholstery, vomits on your new rug, collects Nazi paraphernalia, knocks over the garbage cans, interrupts your lovemaking, blankets your house with hair, makes a ruckus in the middle of the night, walks on the newspaper while your try to read it, defends the designated hitter rule, insists on having its own place to shit when you have a perfectly good commode available (and then shits on the floor anyway), and hisses and scratches you when you pet its tummy. Do you have any alternative explanations for these hostile behaviors?
You do not. Your cat hates you, and not in the lukewarm way that an teenager hates her parents for not letting her go to the Monkey Cunt concert. Your cat hates you like Hitler hated the Jews, like Rocky hated Ivan Drago, but with a concentrated fury unmatched by either man. Why do you think your cat sleeps so much? Because his all-consuming hatred for you haunts his every waking moment. And even sleep is but a partial respite from the boiling hatred that has driven him mad -- mad, I tell you! -- for even his dreams rage with bizarre fantasies about your slow, excruciating death. Yes, your cat wants you dead. He wants nothing more than to watch you get dissected by Boy Scouts with rusty pocket knives.
"Well, if Mr. Piddles wants me dead so bad, then why hasn't he killed me?" you are asking petulantly.
Don't take that tone of voice with me, young lady. Your cat hasn't killed you because your cat is smart. Most cats are smarter than their owners, actually -- they read voraciously (mostly Proust or Greek tragedies), and nearly all of them have mastered mathematics at least up to elementary differential equations. Three cats have won Nobel Prizes for their work in physics, medicine, and economics, and in 1972 a Maine Coon named Suzy-Q
beat Soviet Boris Spassky 12½ - 8½ to become the 11th World Chess Champion.
The point is, your cat is smart enough to know that if he kills you -- especially in the messy manner in which he desires -- he might get caught and sent to the Humane Society, where he'll get sodomized by other cats for two weeks and then put to sleep. Even if he doesn't get caught, he'll be out of an owner and unable to keep himself in Friskies without getting a job. Your cat hates you, but he's also lazy as shit. This is why nine out of ten cats do not torture their owners to death.
"These are awful things you are saying, Kilgore Trout!" you are saying, hugging Mr. Piddles close to your chest. "My kitty loves me! Can't you hear him purring?"
That "purring" is really your cat communicating in his native language. Because its grammar and syntax is considerably more complex than any human language, Feline is nearly impossible for English speakers to understand, but a rough translation of what your cat is saying might be:
I'm just trying to help you out here. If you ever find yourself lashed to a spit over hot coals, screaming in agony while you roast alive and your cat looks on, washing himself contentedly, don't blame me.
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