Please Don’t Kill My Cat

Not too sure what’s going on with the 4-year-old Chiquita these days, but girl has been really crazy with my cat, Kennedy. Kiki, as we call her, is a 15-year-old tabby cat who doesn’t have much life left. She is skinny as a rail – maybe 7 pounds – and I’ve been told her heart will soon stop. :(

Of course it breaks my heart – remember when my beloved Dexter was put to rest? Also, Kiki has been with me since I was a 19-year-old college kid sneaking a kitten into a campus apartment. When my parents kicked me out of our house at 22, Kiki and I went to live in a pet-friendly hotel. She has no joke been by my side through it all. I can’t lose this girl.

My Kiki in her younger years
My Kiki in her younger years

Then comes along the Chiquita. Kiki wasn’t too fond of her at first, but over time their bond grew. I’ll find Kiki sleeping in the Chiquita’s bed if she’s not around…or on Saturday mornings while I’m sipping iced coffee and watching cartoons with the Chiquita the Keekster (as we also call her) will come sit on our laps. It’s been really amazing seeing my pre-mom baby and my actual baby fall in love with each other.

The Chiquita and the Keekster
The Chiquita and the Keekster

Until they started fighting. Maybe it’s because the Chiquita is essentially an only child? She has two older half siblings, but in our house she is essentially the only child. The Chiquita will want Kiki to play tea party or dolls and a 15-year-old cat is obviously not interested in doing much more than sleeping in front of the fireplace.

So the Chiquita started getting mad. She has a bit of a temper, just like Mom, I don’t know where it came from? She had Kiki in her play oven, stuffed in a drawer, and my favorite – the most horrific thing I’ve ever seen – shoved into a Tupperware that literally just barely fit this 7 pound cat with the lid closed tightly on. I walked in the play room to Kennedy’s face shoved against the side of the Tupperware with her eyes wide and filled with terror, and I screamed at the top of my lungs “What do you think you’re doing? You’re going to kill my cat!”

Sadly this all brings me back to what I consider as one of my first nights back as being “me”. The “me” before the expecting mother, the post partum ridden crazy person, but back to the “me” that is “me”. My friend Katie’s wedding. This was the night that I made an ass of myself by hitting on the big black man I referred to as Biggy. Didn’t catch that story? Here it is in all its glory. But, I’ll give you a quick recap.

Everyone knows about word vomit. I particularly struggle with word vomit. Either I’m too stupid to think before I speak or I’m simply an asshole. But, I say things and then think, Should I have said that? I would say if you need to think ‘Should I have said that’ you probably shouldn’t have said that. You know what I mean?

So such is an incident…of me saying something I shouldn’t say being an asshole and I tell a friend that her kid, who she describes as harassing the dog, could be a potential serial killer.

Hold the phone. Did you just call my kid a serial killer?

Back track, back track Jen, back track.

No such luck. I was the insensitive bridesmaid calling a four-year-old a potential serial killer and hitting on a black man in front of my husband. Now do we get why I’m divorced? #therapy

That said, I thought of this last night when I caught the Chiquita strangling my cat.

First there was yelling, then crying (by her), then more yelling, then “You’re grounded from the cat” and then me lying in bed thinking: OMG. Am I raising a serial killer and is God punishing me for that serial killer comment years ago? OMG.

Then I wanted to cry.

How could this sweet blonde angel possibly {almost} kill my cat? How could this girl who says please and thank you and hugs friends at school be so aggressive to Kennedy?

When I talked with her about why she would do this she responded: “Because Kiki doesn’t like me anymore.”

Of course I’m humbled by the “incident” at Katie’s wedding in which I used the words ‘serial killer’ but there is a small (very small) part of me that laughs wondering what the Chiquita may do with her first heartbreak. Maybe she does have a little of mama’s Italian crazy in her??? ;)

 

**Disclaimer: While I make a joke about the incident I absolutely do not support abuse of animals in any way, shape or form.