Kingsley
My cat is an asshole.
Kingsley is a fucking beautiful specimen of cat. He is a Maine Coon (possibly not pure-bred), and he is gray and floofy and has an honest-to-God mane (which inspired his name ... not the lush of an author). Pictures of him on Instagram get comments like “Majestic AF” and “Sooo handsome!” and “He’s magnificent!” (Those were all on the same photo, by the way.)
And Kingsley is a fucking asshole.
If Kingsley were a boyfriend, he’d be the really hot guy who’s great in bed but kinda dumb and a total jerk. But you keep hanging out with him when he deigns to call, which is rarely. You know it’s a kind of abusive situation, but when he stares at you with those soulful eyes, you say yes to him every time. Except Kingsley does not take me out to dinner. In fact, I have to pay for his every night. He does like to curl up at my feet and keep them warm at night, but he refuses to sit next to me in broad daylight. And while his emotional withholding may not be intentionally manipulative, his physical abuse most certainly is.
No food in his bowl? SWAT.
Hungry for the cat drug that is Friskies Party Mix? SWAT.
It’s 4 a.m. and he’s awake and wants me to be too? SWAT.
Kingsley likes to smack me, hard, with one of his giants paws, typically in my face. Having never owned an asshole cat before — my previous was the sweetest and kindest cat to ever exist on the planet — I had no idea that a 13-pound creature could hit me hard enough to leave a bruise. But he can, and he does.
Kingsley also likes to swat the dog — although the dog probably deserves it, given the way she chases Kingsley around the house. But sometimes Kingsley will go berserker out of the blue — there really is no other way to describe it — clawing and biting whatever gets in his way, which is usually my leg. You’d think he wasn’t neutered. You’d think he was feral. But I rescued him when he was just a tiny ball of fuzz, maybe a month old, abandoned on the side of the road.
Cats are normally smarter than dogs, inquisitive and curious. Not Kingsley. He didn’t learn he could push open a cracked door until he was 4. Before that, he would just sit on the other side of it and cry. And cry.
Kingsley also likes to talk to himself, walking around the house with a repeated, “Mrrrow? Mrrow. Mrrow? Mrrow!” It’s not his complaint cry, it’s just a little chatter. What he finds so interesting are probably motes of dust floating in the sunshine. Maybe his balls of fur floating through the air. Like most fluffy cats, Kingsley sheds a lot. Sometimes he eats the clumps of fur he’s shed. He’s that dumb.
But, then, Kingsley is such a beautiful cat, I can’t really blame him for taking advantage of it. He knows that no matter what he does, I’ll still pick him up and rub his floofy belly, even though he hates to cuddle. He will do the cross between a hop and a prance around the house sometimes, and he looks like he’s wearing pantaloons of fur. It’s the silliest thing, and it makes me laugh every time.
Kingsley knows that no matter how many scars he accidentally gives me when he affectionately nibbles on my hand — his way of kissing me, I think — I won’t mind. He knows I’ll still let him in my bed every night, no matter how much fur he leaves on the duvet.
My cat is an asshole, it is true, but he’s a lovable son of a bitch. And he looks so great on Instagram — I couldn’t get rid of him if I wanted to.
