The Rim Of Hell

It has been said that people fall in to two categories. Not men vs. women, rich vs. poor, smart vs. stupid – although these are all valid comparisons, I’m talking about Dog people versus Cat people. Those who prefer an animal of dignity, grace and self control, or those lovers of yippy, feces eating lapwhores. Afficionados of mindless, slobbering pets that carve out their measily existences sniffing each others asses and begging for food scraps, or worshippers of the regal servants of Bast (wait, does that make me a BAST-ard like my wife is always saying?). Regardless, I think you get my drift. It’s easy enough to see which side of the litterbox I reside. Cats are cool.

Truthfully, I don’t hate dogs. Most of them, anyhow. I just prefer cats. In my house, we have 3 Siamese – 2 blue points and 1 seal point. For the non-initiated, that’s 2 grey and one chocolate colored. We also have 2 lapwhores, I mean dogs. A Chihuahua and a Bichon. Bichon is French for “Mop Dog” and Chihuahua is ancient Aztec for “pint size Pitbull”.

The cats, being usually annoyed and disdainful of the dogs, must find a place to spend their 22 1/2 hours a day napping that is out of nipping distance. Our Living room has fit this bill nicely as it has a sofa and a chair, all fluffy and ready for resting on. This creates somewhat of a problem for the wife, as she doesn’t appreciate the plethora of cat hairs and drool stains that my minions leave behind. What can I say – at least one of the cats has allergies, which would be a bitch if he is actually allergic to CAT hairs, eh? But I digress. . .

To minimize feline occupation of said sofa and chair, she has taken to placing bars of soap on the cushions where the cats normally lay. The thinking here is that a cat cannot stand the perfume scent and won’t lay near it. This is perfectly logical to me, as I must fight the urge to slap someone many times in social situations when a wall of reek has nearly knocked me to the floor (and endangering my beer!).

Anyhow, this domesticated varient of chemical warfare has thus far become an intriguing battle of wits, as the cats are now moving their sleeping arrangements around but not OFF the sofa to avoid the soap bars. My frustrated wife is buying more and more soap bars as munitions for the battle – soap bars I should add, which I shall never use lest I become hairy in places I’d rather not. The ears are already a problem enough, thank you.

It will be amusing to see how this ends, although I fear we’re only a Dial bar away from total smackdown. Check your pay-per-view listings. For myself as a casual observer, I find I cannot help but root for the cats a little, in their obstinate defense of the perfect place to rest. But with this support, I must remain totally secretive as the sofa could very well end up being my new bed as well if it should be perceived that I sympathize with the enemy! So for now, bring on the Irish Spring!