Man Vs. Cat

The fan kept me cool all night. I am refreshed. The air smells like opportunity and not like stale beer farts. For once I am ready to open my eyes and take on the day.


My cat’s asshole stares back at me.

I close my eyes too slow. Why would she do this to me?

I’d choose the barrel of a gun over that.

With my head stuffed into the pillow, the cat’s anus painted on the back of my eyelids, I wish for stale beer farts.

I am a man. This cat’s moxy is not going to take my day from me.

I peek open my left eye. Maybe, just maybe there will be a loaded rifle opposite it. I see the alarm clock, no rifle. It’s 12:34 in the afternoon, well past the feline’s feeding hour.

The bastard chose not to cry or slap me to wake me up, but instead planted her personal sunrise in my face for when I got up. Conniving bitch!

When did she come up with this idea and how long had she been waiting like that?

I wish I had the discipline of my cat. I would have a college diploma, a real job, and a dog.

Pulling myself up to a sitting position I remember doing sit-ups. That cat’s asshole vacuumed my potential right through my fucking eyes.

She sees my lifeless body in the sitting position and brings her full-frontal attack. Her eyes normally cute, now had the look of someone on a gin bender, the line between right and wrong does not exist for this cat anymore. I remember this look in the mirror from my younger days.

The quickness of her paws and the screaming of her voice make me think of Bruce Lee. This cat is a drunk Bruce Lee. Or am I drunk and she is Bruce Lee? Lucky for me she only weighs seven pounds.

Fuck you cat. You’re hungry and you can’t eat without me. You should have thought of that before setting me up for that brown eye.

I knock the rabid beast onto the floor with the power of a fucking sasquatch.

Now to the washroom. I struggle to get there-a boxer in a 12-round battle to the death looking for his corner.

I can’t shake this fucking cat. This Muhammad Ali-Bruce Lee motherfucker. She follows me while bitching me out. I am Tina to her Ike. I don’t want to face her hunger cries while I shit. I need to shake her. I need my corner. I need my seat.

The pain of all the abused and battered people out there gives me a surge of energy. I will make a stand for us all!

Donations accepted at the door.

I fake a move to the kitchen, pull a quick spin and shut the bathroom door with the grace of a ballet dancer. The cat is locked out. Sucker.

I settle onto the warm seat, a nice perk of the summertime.

It’s not so bad.

Next to the toilet is the kitty litter. It is full. The shit/piss to actual litter ratio is very one-sided. When did I last clean her litter? I don’t fucking know.

It would suck to have to shit on old shit and piss on old piss. I can understand why the cat is upset. If my toilet couldn’t flush for a week I’d be sure to show my landlord my dirty hole.

I flush my personal shit down the toilet. There is such simplicity with human waste management.

I can hear the cat growling for food over the the running water.

I can’t feed her before cleaning this litter. She always shits right after her breakfast. Her metabolism is higher than a marathon runner.

She’ll take one look at this box, turn up her nose and unleash her fury all over the floor.  I’m not going to give her the opportunity to turn this place into the bathroom of an Irish bar.

I will have a coffee first. I owe that to myself. I must regain my title of owner in our relationship.

I own you! I picked you! I feed you!

Newspaper in one hand and coffee in the other, it is clear who is the boss. Smooth like a Brazilian wax, this coffee is bringing me the satisfaction a man deserves in the prime of his life.

The paper is from the last time I cleaned the litter, but I find it comforting that tomorrow’s weather forecast has the same chance to be right.

Why is it a Brazilian wax? Does that make Brazilian women very smooth or very hairy to begin with?

“You’re a lazy ignorant asshole!” My cat screeches in my ear.

You fool! You think I will feed you before cleaning up your shit!

I won’t let her see me cleaning up her shit. I have worked hard enough to get the power back in this relationship. I have to get back to the washroom without her seeing me.

You ever play chess kitty?

You ever been in a drinking contest kitty?

You ever wrestled a man naked kitty?

You ever raced for your life kitty?

I sprint to the washroom and slam the door. The coffee has given me a human-growth- hormone like jolt. Thud! The cat hits the door. Ha! A drunk Bruce Lee is not so dangerous after all.

I scoop all the droppings and breathe in victory.

Man, there is hardly any litter in there.

Is there enough for the cat to use?

I spread it around evenly and there is barely enough to cover the bottom. I have to pile up the remaining litter near the front of the box. It is very useable.

I wash my hands and head back out to the battleground to feed the maniacal loser pet. She is grateful. Humbled pets are the cutest.

I need a shower to wash away all the asshole, shit and piss that started my day. The water pours over me and I feel good about what I have already accomplished this afternoon.

Man, Brazilian women are sexy.

With no tissue needed for cleanup I feel environmentally responsible, that’s a green load. I turn off the water feeling great about myself.

Pipes cleansed and body cleansed, I get out of the shower. Life is in my control.

I look down for the bath mat and see a freshly smeared shit staring up at me from directly in front of the litter box.

Time to go back to bed.


About Brett Butler

if my dick were a gun is a collection of short stories by Brett Butler. He is also an award-winning filmmaker/screenwriter and co-creator of the Toronto based entertainment production company SubProd. View all posts by Brett Butler

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