I told John about yesterday's entry with the picture of Biddy, and he laughed like a hyena. Of course, he didn't go look at it, because why would he ever want to read his wife's journal? I'm so dull, even my husband doesn't bother reading. (sigh)

Later, we were talking about our filthy cats, when John suggested I swing Biddy by the tail to fling her off the table. I am never quick enough to catch her, so this isn't a viable option. I prefer to go buy one of those collars that gives the beast an electric shock. I used to think that was pretty cruel. After all, I grew up with grandparents who had a farm, complete with electric fences that zapped my ass more times than I like to remember. They hurt, and I imagine those collar zappers are equally as uncomfortable. But what isn't cruel about having to shampoo my carpet and sofa twice a week, or having litter-tainted paws on my eating surface, or a blue stain on my carpet that won't come out. That cat dishes me more cruelty than I ever could manage with a shock collar. The swinging by the tail thing was pretty funny though, because, as I reminded John, I'm an expert at swinging cats by their tails.

This is why I have such a very bad cat. Karma is coming back to get me. Not only am I paying for lying to my husband to get a cat, but I'm paying for abusing farm cats.

My grandma had 10-20 cats on her farm when I was growing up. I've loved cats all my life, so I loved going to Grandma's house. We grandkids would divy up the cats to name them, and I always tried to come up with the coolest names, like Pumpernickel, Jerome, Seymour, and The Hostess Trio: Twinkie, Cupcake, and Ding Dong. You would think that a cat-loving girl like myself that couldn't resist buying any available stickers of cats and pasting them over everything I owned would never do anything a cat wouldn't like. But you know you'd be wrong.

Every once in a while, we would go out into the open area of the yard with a cat, grab it by its tail, and start spinning in a circle. Then when you either got to maximum RPMs or felt like you were going to vomit, you would release the cat, sending it flying through the air. When it landed, it would haul ass, and we would laugh hysterically. I don't think it was my idea to start doing this. I actually think my mom said something about doing it when she was a kid, so of course, we tried it. And we loved it. And the stupid cats always came back to us.

I think it probably was my idea to start the Kitty Wash-n-Dry though. If you weren't sure I was going to hell, you should be soon. My grandma had a big, deep wagon that we would fill with water. Then we would hold the cats by their front paws and dip them up and down. You would be amazed at how much a cat can curl itself up like a window shade right at the water's surface until it would have to roll inside of itself to avoid getting wet. Once wet, they usually give in and get thoroughly washed.

Don't think you don't know what comes next. Yes, we spun the cats dry by their tails, after which they would continuing the drying process by hauling ass, and we would cackle like the little demons we were. Grandma eventually put a stop to the Kitty Wash-n-Dry.

I think I was twelve before we ever got a cat of our own. We took Twinkie home after a great deal of begging, not that we hadn't begged a million times before. I guess Mom just got worn down enough. She didn't like the name Twinkie though, so she was renamed Puff, like that's so much better. I was pretty miffed that she didn't keep the name Twinkie, no matter how stupid it might sound now. By that time, I was not so evil, and the only rotten thing I did to Puff was dress her up in doll clothes. She was cute as can be though. How could I resist? Even my mom took pictures of little Puffy in her baby carriage with her dress on.

As an adult, I torment my own cats with plastic bags whenever possible. Asia used to like plastic grocery bags until one got stuck around his middle, and he ran full-throttle the length of the house several times and pissed himself. We just sat back and howled, because it really is the funniest cat thing I've ever seen in my life. But now the poor cats is scared to death of the sound of rattling plastic, and I can't resist putting the fear of God in him whenever he's nearby, and I'm unpacking groceries. I don't know why Biddy is afraid of the bags, except that maybe Asia shared his horrifying experience.

So you see, there is a great deal of bad karma owed to me, and this one and a half wretched cats probably isn't going to balance the scales.

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