House plants not house cats
Growing up, my family had an indoor cat named Muffin. Stereotypical cat name right? But very fitting for such a stereotypical cat!
She would lounge around in the sun during the day, occasionally chase after a string you dangled in front of her face and every once in a while stare at you with this prideful look and scratch you for no good reason.
I loved that cat, and even though it’s pretty hard to read through the lines of a their temperamental nature, I’m almost positive the feeling was mutual. However, somewhere during the years, my love for cats has come to an abrupt halt.
It all started when I was a freshman in high school. Muffin was long gone and we had a cat named Beans. Fitting his name to a T, he was the most flatulent creature that has walked this earth.
He also hated my guts. I once came home to find that he had relieved himself in not just one corner of my room, but all four! I mean seriously? That conniving little animal knew where his litter box was and never once had an accident before this instance.