Day 101: Our Cat Is Not White Trash

Since the day I met Willy, I have tried so hard to be his buddy. It never quite worked out. Thankfully, I’m now allowed to be in the same room as him, but that’s about as chummy as he’s willing to get. So I decided that in order to be friends with a cat, I need to act more like him. I tried meowing on one drunken night. He got really close to my face, so I meowed again. With no warning, he slashed my face and I bled out like Triple H after touching a metal object. Pretending to be a cat was a lazy trick for affection and Willy saw through that shit instantly. In order to relate to Willy, I’m going to need to dig deep into his roots. He comes from the backwoods of Eastern Connecticut, a place not unlike where I grew up. In order for him to trust me, I’m going to have to show that I’m one of him.

I don’t normally buy things for Willy, but when I do, I do it for my own amusement. So when I saw that a WWE Championship Belt Pet Bed existed, I hit Buy Now quicker than a pack of smokes depleting at 2 AM. He didn’t quite care for it. He just kind of stares at it. In the last year, he stepped in it once and that was only to grab something that I threw in there. The idea of being WWE Champion is somehow beneath him. This was cause for concern, as I thought that a country boy like him would dream of being champ. So I watched a bunch of wrestling when he entered the room to see if it would pique his interest. I tried a multitude of organizations and eras: Attitude, Ruthless Aggression, PG, NWA, NWO, New Generation, ECW, hell, I even put on some Smokey Mountain Wrestling. He simply did not care.

The same thing happened when we bought him a fun little Christmas Camper. We took steps to ensure that it was both cute and not-soft. He looked at it with disgust and never considered stepping inside of it. He seemed to find the faux-aluminum siding to be tacky and was bothered by the fact that it didn’t run. It was, after all, a broke-down trailer. While I thought a dude from the sticks would find unlimited things to do with it, he treats it as an eyesore that’s taking up precious floor space. I started getting desperate to connect with him. I put on Motorcross, Guy Fietti, CMT, nothing pleased him. I doused his treats in PBR, he wanted nothing to do with them. I put on a Pantera album and he hid under the bed. When that happened, something dawned on me:

Our cat is not white trash.

There’s a reason why he moved to the city at such a young age. He’s an alley cat, a cool cat, a citay kittay. Well that’s much easier to relate to! I’m a city dude myself. I tried to watch The Sopranos with him. He fell asleep within minutes. I played some Tribe Called Quest. He ran back under the bed. I built a cardboard fortress for him out of discarded boxes, trying to emulate the alleyway experience. He kind of liked it, but he didn’t seem to be “at home”. On a whim, Rachel got him a little play tent and somehow, someway, he liked it! He takes all of his toys to it and hangs out there for hours. That’s when I realized that Willy is exactly like me. He was born a country boy, became a citay kittay, but is now trying to get back in touch with nature on his own terms. Maybe that’s why we don’t get along, because we’re so much alike. That…kind of makes sense.

That theory went immediately out the window on Christmas. Rachel put a plaid bandanna on him and he didn’t resist. He was actually glowing. He was a free spirit, an individual and his little tent was his own private Burning Man. Then, it finally dawned on me. The real reason why we never got along and will never get along.

God damnit. Our cat is a fucking hipster.

I guess I better dust off my records, soak his treats in IPA and start reading him Infinite Jest aloud. Wish me luck.

– TeeCoZee