The First Post By A New Guest Writer Who Hasn't Quite Figured Out How To Sign on Yet.

This was written by CatPower or CatGirl or FatCAt or CatEchism. I don't frankly remember her writing name but here it is. I believe she will be a wonderful addition to Coney Island.

i hate my husband's cat


i hate my husband's cat

Animal lover. Vegetarian. Donate money to animal rights and rescue organizations. Once saved a tiny cowering mouse from being stomped on by 20 screaming kindergarten children and mouse hating panicked teacher. Got a cup, put it inside, walked down the block, set it free on the grass. Stay up all night crying after watching "Animal Cops" stories of abused animals. With all these credentials, the deep, dark, ugly, mean secret about to be revealed would shock and apall even the most hard, insensitive, wretched person. I hate my husbands cat. My husband's cat is enormous, at least 80 pounds. Looks like a large racoon. When he lays on the armrests of our livingroom couch, his fat spills down off the sides. He is so fat that he cannot even wash himself because he can't reach. While most cats bend and twist themselves into yoga like positions to sanitize their fur and crucial private areas, Mr. Fatty, struggles, heaves, and falls short of breath, finally giving up any hope of cleanliness. He cannot jump up to high places, like kitchen countertops. When he runs, the fat on his belly swings back and forth like the tic-toc mechanism of a grandfather clock. Whenever people come to our apartment, the first thing that they say is WHOA THAT'S A BIG CAT! Mr. Fatty(not his real name by the way) is a tabby. His stripes are dark brown. As we all know, horizontal stripes on overweight people make them appear larger. The same goes for cats. The only redeeming feature on this cat is his beautiful blue eyes. I'd like to pop them out and store them in a laboratory in case I go blind. Wonder how he got this way? Let's observe his eating habits. When food is presented on his dish, he lays half his body across the plate and proceeds to gorge himself. He makes several trips to the kitchen to finish off any minute piece of food that the other cats haven't finished. I admit that I enjoy terrorizing him by clapping loudly while chasing him out. I'd like to think that I am justified and even doing him a favor. Or perhaps I should allow him to eat himself into an obesity related heart attack. I have three of my own cats-Stinky, LaLa, and Mosey are their nicknames. They are black and beautiful (incidentally, all the white cats moved out of the neighborhood when they moved in). Mosey is my darling. I tell people that he's my real husband. I hug, embrace, kiss, and coo at him continually. He is the king, he can do no wrong. If I eat salmon, I set some aside to feed him. At times, I pay more attention to him and treat him better than my husband. Stinky is the supermodel cat. He is thin and lean and sexy. He is able to jump to very high places in one single leap. He is bratty and like to start fights with the other cats. His nails are impossible to cut, so he has singlehandedly destroyed the couch. But I like to put blame on my husbands cat for it. LaLa is the first cat I ever owned. She was a street cat who adopted me when I lived with my mom. One day, I opened the door to her house and she walked right in. She is chubby, cuddly, and affectionate. I like to sleep with her because she feels like a big teddy bear. While my cats are lovable, adorable, and quirky, Mr. Fatty's traits and habits seem to grow more disgusting and repulsive with each day. When he shakes his head, drool and spit fly out of his mouth onto your skin. His meow sounds like a dying, rabid crow. He is emotionally needy and desperate for attention. No one can pet him just a little. The minute he is touched, he spazzes out. He goes into convultions of ecstasy. He is a drain, a leech, a bottomless pit. An embarrassment to all cats. Cats are sopposed to be cool, independent, and aloof. Not act like dogs. He is so much like a dog that when my husband comes home he follows him around. He lays at his feet and stares at him adoringly. One of his worse transgressions was bringing fleas into the apartment. They bit my legs and stomach, sucked my blood out, and made me itchy, miserable, and near insane. I looked like I had an incurable disease. It took us months to get them out. we had to hire an exterminator. Consequently, he was never allowed outdoors again. Which means I have to see him more now than ever. Everybody loves my husband's cat. Our friend Phil said that he is the only cat that should wear a bowtie. Our friend Mike pets him for hours. My friend Gail and her son John want to adopt him. They think that I am inherently evil for hating him. I have several torture fantasies brewing. I would like to take Mr. Fatty for a mafia style "ride" far away from our apartment. Release him to an unfamiliar territory. Test his survival skills. I would like to lure him to the middle of the street with a tray of food and watch him turn into a cat pancake. I would like to have him skinned and send his fur to a small cold child in Romania. Instead of acting out these fantasies, I have chosen to co-exist with him. Ignore him as best as possible. I sublimate my murderous thoughts and feed him twice a day. I am not so cruel as to have him euthanized just because I don't like him. My attempts at sending him to a loving home have all failed. He is an old cat. Perhaps soon he will die of natural causes.

Written by someone other than Cap'n Pete.