'Homicidal Psycho Jungle Cat'

If you were any kind of Calvin and Hobbes fan, you know what I mean by 'Homicidal Psycho Jungle Cat.'  If you don't know what I am talking about, I would say that the title is pretty much self explanatory.  It's homicidal, it's from the jungle, and it is assuredly mentally unstable.

To get to the point, I have one of those cats.

You would never know it by looking at him.  I mean...he's fucking ADORABLE.  People melt into a sticky puddle of goo when they see him.  In fact, he is so cute people develop a speech impediment when they are around him. His name is Pringles, but pretty much everybody calls him Pwingwes.  It's just easier that way.  And cuter.  Like Pwingwes.

Anyway.  You wouldn't think he was a 'Homicidal Psycho Jungle Cat' when you see him belly-up on his bed, a contented half-smile playing across his fuzzy face...but he is...ooohhhh he most certainly is.  The transformation usually comes at night, but he has been known to 'cross over' in the middle of the day, if it's especially nice outside.

You see, Pringles used to be allowed to roam a few acres of property at his last home.  He could do what he damn well pleased; eat animals possibly infected with the Rage, poop EVERYWHERE, chase EVERYTHING, and harass other cats within an inch of their lives.  Now that we live in an apartment, he's not allowed to go outside.

You might think that this is cruel, but you know what?  Piss off.  You know what would be cruel, a small, flattened, twitching Pringles on the side of the road.  THAT would be cruel.  And that is the image that haunts me every time he begs at the screen door to go out.

I try to tell myself that it's the fact that he can't go outside that turns him into a 'Homicidal Psycho Jungle Cat' , but deep down, I think it's been in him all along, and that he sleeps all day because he is WAITING.  Waiting for the most opportune time to come out of his shell and terrorize anyone in his path.  Which is ALWAYS me.  And sometimes my boyfriend.  But mostly me.

Let me set the scene for you.

5:17 a.m. Place- My bedroom. Ambience- Peaceful.  I have been asleep for nearly 5 hours.  I have my kitty-cat eye mask on to prevent any unwanted awakenings by my boyfriend going to the bathroom or a rogue car pulling into our parking lot.  My head is full of sweet dreams about me owning a Vespa and cruising around town while everyone points and says ''She must be the coolest girl ever.  Look at her in that Vespa.'

THEN IT STARTS.

First it's the rustling.  It's not loud.  It doesn't wake up my boyfriend, but it wakes ME up.  Because I KNOW that shit is about to go down.

The rustling might be coming from under the futon in our bedroom.  It might be coming from the hall.  It might be coming from the bathroom.  IT MIGHT BE COMING FROM EVERYWHERE AT ONCE.  It is impossible to pinpoint it.  The creepy thing is, if at this point in time I sit up and look around to see where the sound is coming from, Pringles is always sitting PERFECTLY STILL, looking at me like, 'What?  Why are you up?  Mind your own business.  I'm not doing anything but sitting here.  Go back to sleep and dream about your Vespa.'

This is why now I just lay and wait during the rustling stage.  Because I know what he's doing.  He can't pull the wool over my eyes so easily.  He is looking for a hair-tie.

Hair-ties are like crack to Pringles.  They are the only things he plays with.  Sometimes he will settle for a rubber-band, but hair ties are his favorite.  What does he do with them?  He bats at them.  He runs full speed into a room, goes straight for the hair tie, bats at it, and then runs away at full speed.  Like he is playing tag.  With an inanimate object.  And he's losing.  At first it was funny, and now...well now it's still funny.  BUT NOT AT 5:17 IN THE MORNING.

So it's roughly 5:20 and Pringles has rustled up a hair-tie.  Now the adventure begins.  It's time to run laps around the apartment, to impress and intimidate the hair tie with his predatory prowess.  I have to admit, he is VERY fast and his turning radius is mind-blowing.  Sometimes his turns are so sharp his body almost forms a perfect right angle with the wall.  I swear to God.   I have often pondered creating a faux-racetrack around the apartment and watching him while making car noises.  It would be like Nascar, but better. Despite the fact that he is supremely fast, sometimes he has trouble avoiding obstacles.  Like the couch.  Or a table.  These he usually runs into head-on, or slides into when he can't get enough traction with his claws.  You can tell when this happens but the alarming THUNK.  That sound always makes me smile to myself...'You're not as awesome as you think you are, Pringles, the couch has outsmarted you again by STAYING IN THE SAME PLACE IT'S ALWAYS BEEN.'

Once Pringles has found his hair-tie and intimidated it sufficiently, he usually decides to bring it to ME and show ME how awesome he is.  I hear him come into the room, on his adorable, tiny, kitty-cat paws.  Then I feel his gaze from the end of the bed.  I physically FEEL it.  He knows that I know what he is about to do, and he wants to drag out the suspense as long as possible.

The I feel a slight plop.  That's the hair-tie being thrown on the bed, near my feet.  A split second later, Pringles arrives.  This is when it gets ugly.  At my feet (usually in between my feet) a horrific war breaks out between Pringles and the hair tie.  He tries to grasp it with his feet (which is almost impossible since he has no thumbs), pulls on it with his teeth, bats at it, pushes it off the bed,and then brings it back on the bed, to start fighting it again.  This can last anywhere between 5 to 20 minutes, until he is satisfied that he has won.  This is usually signaled by him laying on top of the hair-tie. Sometimes, mind you, SOMETIMES this means the battle is over and he can pass out knowing that he has conquered his enemy.  But MOST of the time he discovers another enemy on the battlefield.  My feet.  Pringles obviously thinks that my feet are evil monsters that live under the blanket whose soul purpose is to taunt him with their occasional movement.  

Another battle ensues.  Pringles refuses to actually go under the blankets (God knows why) so he uses his paws to shove them up my legs and expose my feet.  Once my delicate toes are exposed, he attacks them.  Claws out, fangs bared, hair standing completely on end.  He looks like an adorable, rabid raccoon.  At least I think so, but my feet have a different opinion.  They are currently being mauled, despite my best efforts to wrap them in protective blankets.  Pringles is very, very good at fitting his little paws in between my defenses.  

I know what you're thinking.  'Just kick him off the bed, Brittany, God.'  But it's not that easy.  Kicking him off the bed only fuels his rage, you see.  Kicking him off the bed assures at least 5 more minutes of sporadic attacks on my precious feet.  I have found through multiple, painful experiences that it is better to just ride it out.

After my feet are bloodied and I am fully awake, Pringles is satisfied.  He then proceeds to pass out.  Not just fall asleep, but completely PASS the fuck OUT.  By this time it's a quarter to 7 and I know that my alarm will go off in an hour.  I usually spend that hour petting Pringles and trying to go back to sleep.  Why am I petting him?  Because he is near me and he is soft and adorable and when he purrs my heart melts.  That's why.  By doing this I am sure that I am only reassuring him that yes, he is an excellent predator and yes, my feet and the hair-tie are dead as door-nails until tomorrow.  I don't care. I love him.  

This is how Pringles acts when I am up in a tree and he can't get at me to attack my feet.  I think he might have seperation anxiety.