My Frenemy the Cat

When I first got Lasagna my goal was to make her the best cat on earth. Of course the requirements for what makes a “best cat” are relative but for me it is a cat who sits contentedly on your lap and doesn’t go all stranger-danger when someone new enters the house. I thought the best way to make Lasagna into this type of cat required two things: 1. Force her to sit on my lap and love my love and, 2. Make sure as many people as possible handled her when they came to visit. The first one backfired on me and I think it’s because there is such a thing as “too much love.” Still, some will disagree with me and say that the reason she isn’t a lap cat is because I dressed her up in ridiculous outfits. You say tomato I say tomatoh so let’s just agree to disagree. (On a side note how many whimsical phrases can I fit in one sentence? Roughly 2.)

The point I’m trying to make is that Lasagna did not turn out to be my ideal “best cat.” On one hand she is very friendly. She loves being around people and enjoys sitting somewhere close-by provided you don’t touch her. Another thing she does that I find endearing is she allows children to come juuussst close enough before casually getting up and moving a bit farther out of reach. Instead of running as far away as possible she plays a little game with them and seems to be as interested in them as they are in her. Finally, one last thing I like about Lasagna is that I have never seen her act aggressively towards anybody. Except for me.

Lasagna hates her some Lauren. I have known for some time now that she prefers Marcus over me and I have come to accept that. However, her preference for Marcus and dislike for me has turned into what can only be described as an assassination attempt on her part to be rid of the b*tch that stands between her and her man. For the last few months my days and nights have been spent trying to quietly go about my business and avoid making eye contact with the cat for fear that she may off me at the slightest provocation. I’ve found that by moving slowly I can avoid any confrontation. Unfortunately for me there is little time in my day for moving slowly.

Assassination attempts have been occurring more frequently and, as any good assassin would, she has the element of surprise playing in her favor. Being a small cat allows her to hide and crouch in places not in my line of view. Having pointy teeth and claws also helps as does my resistance towards going to jail for animal cruelty.

If you haven’t lived through an assassination attempt I assure you it is no laughing matter. With one wrong move the fight for my life begins as she hurls her tiny, yet freakishly strong, body into my legs while shouting her war cry. I desperately seek a place to run and hide but by turning my back to her I leave myself vulnerable and she goes for my Achilles heel in an attempt to incapacitate me and finish the job. I fall to the ground in a heap of panic and tears yelling out for help from the man who supposedly devoted his life to me when we said our vows. As she makes her attempts to rip my jugular out I hear Marcus say “What do you want me to do about it?” I begin to wonder if he’s in on it, too? Has she used her cat wiles to seduce him into thinking life would be better without the ol’ ball and chain? Surely not, for if I were gone who would clean her litter box? I shudder to think what horrible plans they have made for life after me.

Then suddenly, much like the attack began, the attack ends and I watch the time bomb that is my cat retreat into another room. I painfully crawl into the nearest room and close the door mindful to lock it in case she’s grown opposable thumbs and figured out how to open doors. I quickly scribble out an SOS and send it sliding out, under the door hoping that Marcus will find it and rescue me (assuming, of course, that he isn’t in on it). A minute later the same note is sent back to me with one, long, bloodied whisker. She’s waiting. As darkness falls I cry myself to sleep hoping and praying that I will live to see the daylight again.





I wake up to a stream of light flooding the room. It’s quiet in the house as I cautiously unlock the door and peer out. No Lasagna. I make my way downstairs and warily begin making coffee when suddenly. She’s there. Rubbing against my legs purring and meowing pitifully for her breakfast. I look down at her and she looks back up with her big, green eyes seeming to ask for a little scratch behind the ears. I oblige and then make my way to the pantry to get her food. It seems like all is well and we are once again friends. As I happily scoop up her food into her bowl I turn, just in time to see her go running away with the butcher knife.

Just come a leetttle closer

I will murderz u