L'il Psycho

I’ve been learning some lessons recently about how looks can be deceiving and how some people can turn out to be completely different than what they at first appeared to be. Apparently this is not just a human quality.

I love my cat. He is really one of the most adorable things I have ever had the pleasure of coming into contact with. I would say that 97.25% of the time he’s the sweetest most loveable creature there is. I’m convinced that the reason I haven’t really been all that fussed about dating over the past year is because I get so much love from the little guy… more cuddles than anyone I’ve been with since I’ve moved to Toronto for sure… that I don’t miss regular male contact. Hugh is attached to my hip when I am home and when I leave my apartment I can hear him lamenting over my departure while I am waiting for the elevator. It breaks my heart.

However… the other 2.75% of the time? PSYCHOTIC. And not in a “aw, what a quirky little cat you have there Bea” way. No, it’s more along the lines of “call Father Bullock and tell him to break open the exorcism kit” kind of way. (For reference purposes, Father Bullock, or Father B as we called him, was our family priest. I think about him when I smell whisky because it brings me back to the age of 3 when he used to sit me on his lap and babble incoherently about this and that, his bulbous and veined nose featuring prominently along with the smell of booze on the breath. Gotta love the Catholic clergy).

Sadly, the psychotic 2.75% of him manifests itself in such a concentrated form so as to make the adorable 97.25% part of him easy to forget a lot of the time. Smashed vases (x3), ripped curtains (he likes to climb them), destroyed Chinese screen (by both claws it and pushed it over to it breaks… I’m running out of replacement screws), destroyed toilet paper rolls, plants eaten (even poisonous ones with no effect. If keeping track, the current favorites are white pansies and onions), closet doors opened and clothes shredded (he swings on my skirts), chairs peed on, garbage eaten, electrical cords chewed through, hands gnawed on in the middle of the night, semi-hourly under the cover foot attacks, anything not glued down to table tops knocked off, holes in the shower curtain, countless hours of missed sleep and other miscellaneous property damage.

I got a water bottle to squirt the little bugger when he misbehaves. Besides the fact that his demon hide seems impermeable to water, while I was not looking the little monster chewed the nozzle so that the most that comes out is a weak little dribble. Next on the shopping list is the Super Soaker 5000. After that? Power washer.

Finally the question that has been on my mind since I first laid eyes on him has been answered…

Why would ANYONE have given this little adorable guy to the Humane Society? Touché original owner… Touché.

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