I’ve always had a thing for cats. I think they’re cute as hell, hilarious little beasts, and I love their big ol’ personalities, which make you love them even more. Plus, they’re usually super independent, which is great for me, because I’m totally one of those people who love the idea of pets, but doesn’t like the hassle of actually taking care of their needs. I just like having something warm and alive to cuddle with, so their autonomy is complete perfection.
Regardless with how freakin’ cool cats are, my parents hate me, so it took them until I was 18 years old to actually allow me to snag one. Which I did in a heartbeat, and I named my sweet kitten angel Burbank Amadeus Jordan. But, Burbank ended up being like this HUGE bitch. Not sure if it was just the way he is, or if I just over-loved on his feline cuteness, leading him to resent me. But, either way, I gave this cat all the affection in the world, and it still didn’t love me no matter what. The dickhead didn’t even let you hold him. How am I supposed to smother him with cuddles, if he refuses to let me hold his cute butt?
One day, I decided that if he didn’t love me, then he can have a taste of the real world, and see just how much he needs his Chase. So, I began to transition Burbank into an indoor/outdoor cat. Which consisted of me throwing him outside, locking the door behind me, and carrying on with my day.
It was all going super well, except he didn’t come home that night. I was worried, but I figured he’d show up at the front door in the morning when he’s all shivering cold. So, the next morning I open the door expecting my kitty to be waiting patiently for me, but instead I was greeted by a pool of blood. Cat blood.
Ever since then, I haven’t seen high or low of Burbank Amadeus. From the looks of it, he was being chased by something, probably a coyote. He booked it back to my house, to get to safety, but alas cats can’t turn doorknobs. So, he was trapped, the poor thing. Whatever was after him, dragged him off my patio, leaving the streaks of blood as the only evidence that Burbank had been there.
So the moral of this story is that you’d better love me, or I’ll lock your ass outside to be eaten by wild dogs for breakfast. Which is a pretty darn important moral to learn, just ask Burbank, I’m sure he’d vouch for me.
