My Cats Are the WORST Roommates


It goes without saying that I love my cats more than I love most people. My cats are seriously among the best and I will gladly fight anyone that tries to say any different. People that hate cats love my little fur monsters.

I was once asked by a guy that I was dating if I would ever love him as much as I love my cats. The answer was no. This was mostly because I had already set my mind to breaking up with him which I did less than 24 hours after the question was asked.

In my defense, he was insane.

I attract crazies, what can I say?


My cats are wonderful little devils. To non-cat people that sentence completely contradicts itself. How can they be wonderful and devils?

I imagine people feel the same about their children sometimes.

Anyone with cats are probably like, “yep, that’s accurate.”

Cats and kids. One and the same.

I’ll fight you.

My cats are true delights and as I mentioned above, people that hate cats love mine. They are sweet as all get out and basically just want to love you every second of every day.

Burger does have resting bitch face sometimes but she will also be the first to come love the crap out of you the second you come anywhere close to her. She is also part parrot and will stalk you down until she can jump onto your back and climb onto your shoulders.

For some strange reason the only picture I have readily available of Parrot Burger is one of her and my brother from way back when I first adopted her… featuring my old apartment… in Massachusetts… this picture is old. My cat is a parrot.

I often forget to warn people who come over to my house about this and they end up with a surprise cat on them within minutes of stepping foot into my home.

Normally I see it about to happen and stop it. Other times I’m not that quick.

Fair warning if you are ever a guest in my home. Burger will attack you with love.

My cats are also weird as all hell and make for the worst possible roommates sometimes. The bad part is that I can’t even be mad at them about it.

I bring this up because of two separate incidents that occurred in my home yesterday. Surprisingly, the only innocent one for the day is Lemon. ANYONE who has met Lemon will be surprised by this since she is about as dumb as a stack of bricks.

Her favorite pastime is knocking chunks of ice into the garbage disposal.

She is not normal.

No. Our two culprits for the day are Burger and Guinness and it’s because of their undying weirdness.

The first, and possibly most infuriating, incident actually happened somewhere between the hours of 3am when I went to bed and 9:30am when I got my day started.

For backstory: Guinness is OBSSESSED with my FitBit. I have no idea why but any chance she gets to attack it she takes. She will take it by the band and try to sneak away with it. As a result I have taken to tucking it away when I’m not wearing it to keep her from getting her paws (well, mouth) on it.

Despite having put all my regularly attack accessories in their usual spot last night, for some reason I had left my FitBit somewhere in the kitchen.

When I walking into the kitchen this morning I found my poor FitBit on the floor with part of the band CHEWED OFF.

The damage is pretty back but as you can see I’m wearing it with no problem. It doesn’t actually stick out like that- I adjusted it to get the picture.

Ever the patient parent, I didn’t even get mad. I only had myself to blame.

She’s a cat, she doesn’t know that she was potentially destroying a $250 piece of equipment.

Thankfully, despite being chewed the band is still functional despite not looking so wonderful anymore.

Completely unrelated: the major flaw, to me, for the FitBit Surge which is the model I use, it that’s it’s designed as all one piece so fixing and issue like this isn’t in the cards. Granted, the one time I had a problem with part of the wristband breaking, FitBit was nice enough to send a replacement tracker. I doubt I’ll be that fortunate this time around so I shall just learn to live with it. Function over fashion for once I suppose.

Anyway. I wore the tracker through the day with no issue so I’ll live.

Much like a parent with a toddler, I can’t fault Guinness for this because I know better than to leave the FitBit sitting around regardless of how tired I am when I remove it (did I mention I didn’t get to bed until 3am?).

Burger was our next offender for the day.

I spent most of the afternoon out of the house. I had a late doctor’s appointment and decided to take myself out to dinner rather than cooking for myself which would have involved a trip to the grocery store and I was in no mood.

I ended up running into some friends and stayed at the restaurant until it was time to pick up some friends at the airport.

It was a productive day… where nothing really got accomplished when you really look at it but let’s look at the bright side.

I left the house.

While Guinness has an insatiable hunger for my more expensive electronic devices, Burger has an undying love for uncooked pasta.

She can’t get enough.

It doesn’t matter what kind. Traditional spaghetti? So loves it! Elbows? She longs for it! Cavatappi? More like can-I-havi!!

Okay. That last one was a stretch but I’m tired.

Again, this is something I’m aware of and I do my best to not leave opened boxes of the stuff sitting around in the kitchen.

And again, I was making my dinner at one in the morning so I wasn’t really thinking when I shut life down for the night.

The box made it a good while without being disturbed but somewhere in the seven hours that I was out of the house, Burger made her move and attacked.

The result was a giant mess of noodles on my kitchen floor.

I can’t be made, this was a mess of my own making and she is an adorable fluff ball who doesn’t know any better.

On the plus side, my quick search of the internet tells me that her eating of pasta isn’t going to be a major issue. The stuff is basically flour, water and egg.

I’m just annoyed because that’s wasted food.

Not Burger’s fault.

It’s mine.

I should be less of a slob and remember to put stuff back in the pantry.


3 comments on “My Cats Are the WORST Roommates”

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