Poor Stupid Cat

This is my cat. Her name is Lola, and she's not all there.

When Lola was a kitten, she somehow got outside and drank antifreeze.

She was never quite right after that. I decided to keep her indoors until she was an adult, because I didn't trust her to take care of herself outside.

A couple years later, I decided to see if I could expand her horizons beyond the confines of my house. I opened the front door and gave her a little nudge. Cautiously, she took a few steps across the yard, and then completely lost her shit. Apparently having never felt grass, she didn't know what to do with herself, and clumsily marched around the yard, howling in distress at the squishy, cool lawn beneath her feet.

That was the last time I let her outdoors. She never showed any interest in exploring the outside world, so I figured it wouldn't be a problem. But as the years progressed, Lola started to lose her little mind completely.

Like a lot of cats, Lola liked to sleep in the sink. Unlike other cats, Lola didn't seem to notice when the faucet was running, and would plop her fat self down in the sink regardless. One night I was brushing my teeth before bed, and the phone rang in the other room. I went to answer it, and by the time I came back a few minutes later, Lola was nearly submerged in a sink full of water, almost defiant in her determination to stay put.

As time progressed, Lola developed a sort of guard dog mentality, growling quietly at company and stalking them as they moved from room to room. Unfortunately, she had a hard time differentiating between strangers and myself, and on occasion she'd attack me. Sometimes when I'd get out of the shower, she'd snap into wildcat mode. I figure it's because I didn't smell like someone she knew, which caused her to view me as prey.

Back when she was a kitten, unfettered by the sweet allure of engine coolant, Lola's hunter instincts served her well. If she spotted a bug or moth on the ceiling, she'd rapidly climb the nearest bookshelf or floor lamp to get closer to it–or if it was more convenient, she'd dig in her claws and climb the nearest human.

She still does this from time to time, always suddenly and without warning. Sadly, she's too dumb and too fat to climb very high, so she just launches herself partway up my back and then hangs there, exhausted, like a lump of furry bread dough.

She's pretty much a worthless cat, and it sort of bums me out. Sometimes when I see her staring up at a moth on the wall, confused and forlorn, I'll lift her up so she can reach out with her fat paws and grab at it. I feel like I'm helping her maintain some sort of feline decorum in this way.

Even then, I have to hold her right in front of the moth before she'll grab at it. More often than not she just bats at the air and yowls, but every so often she'll succeed and stuff the moth in her mouth.

I left home when I graduated from high school, so Lola lives with my mom now. Whenever I call home, my mom always has new stories to tell me about Lola, or as my mom likes to call her, "that stupid braindead cat of yours who I'm going to murder with a steak knife if she keeps biting my ankles." My mother tells me that she can't put hand lotion on before bed anymore, because Lola panics at my mom smelling different, and has to lick off all the lotion before she'll settle down and leave my mother alone.

I remind myself that pet ownership is for life, even when your pet is a barely functioning lump of fur and claws. You have to stick it out and take care of your stupid animal forever, or until you move away from home and pawn it off on an unsuspecting family member. Then, it's just a matter of time before your mom calls you to tell you your dumb cat wandered into a woodchipper, and that she's buying a poodle.