Blog Story #4

Sorry for the wait. I was planning on getting this one out yesterday afternoon, but forgotten schoolwork refused me any computer time. But here it is. In fact, I have three different stories to post right now, including this one. Enjoy!

I love cats. At least that is what most people think. Truth is, I hate them. That is, I hate my cat. Would you like to know why I hate my cat? Well you're about to find out. Here goes.
I used to love cats. So much, in fact, that I bought one. It was love at first sight. On second, it was only casual fondness. I brought home Elmo that very day. Yes, I named him Elmo. I have been mentally affected by those shows that I watched as a little kid. At least, that is what my psycho doctor, I mean, my psychological doctor, thinks. Anyway, I brought home Elmo and my life changed. I lost my freedom, my wallet, and nearly my mind. Elmo was a tyrant. He had harbored feelings of resentment of mankind and was now unleashing them in all their evil glory on me. No sooner had I come in the door on that fateful day and locked it behind me, than that malicious cat turned on me. It hissed and spat. I whimpered and retreated into a corner. I spent the next few days in that corner. During that evil period of time I could only watch as Elmo answered phone calls, fixed food, and groomed himself. Oh, he answered the phone calls by pressing Talk and then pressing End with only a few seconds of hissing in between. He cooked by placing food on the burners and then turning them on until it was thoroughly scalded. I think that the grooming was the worst. Primarily because my floor became flooded with hairballs. Elmo was an expert on hairballs, I have to say. He would lick and lick and lick until there was a large wad of hair in his mouth. Then he would rear up on his back legs leaving his front limbs dangling before him. His face would go through several different colors, his eyes would slowly narrow, and then he would throw. There was a loud noise followed by a smaller noise. The latter sound was similar to that of a glob of mud landing on cement. So Elmo had become a regular expert at hair-balling. But worse as these things are, the next goes further than them all. Elmo fed me. He hunted in my attic and brought me his kill. After a while on a diet of mangled mice and squished spiders, I was brought something that terrified me. I had just been transferred to a larger room and was exploring. I opened, looked under, and smelled everything. I first smelled a nearby box. Immediately I recognized it as the box where I kept my gym sneakers after gym class. Don't ask me how I knew that, I'd rather not explain. Next I investigated the long colorful carpet on the floor. As I pulled back the edge of the carpet, a horrible sight greeted my eyes. There lay my childhood teddy, ripped and gouged. I clutched at the precious keepsake. Suppressing a sob, I held the stuffed property close. I suddenly felt a rage like never before. The mauling of my adorable teddy bear cut deep. I was mad. Walking over to the door I slammed my shoulder into it, in an attempt to knock it down. It didn't budge. Slightly embarrassed by my painful display of bravado I grasped the doorknob and opened the door. I was overflowing with rage as I looked for Elmo. But Elmo had disappeared. He was gone. After a a few days, everything settled back into routing. I was relaxed and comfortable. I got my teddy bear fixed and gave him the place of honor on some dusty old shelf. But most of all I've started a museum. A cat history museum. So I make my living off of dead cats. Ironic, huh?

I hope that you enjoyed that. It was my second favorite. My favorite is #6. Have a great day everyone.