Catalina Forero Ruiz

I have always hated cats. Never had one, never wanted one, my parents hated them, I assumed this was simply one of those sensible family traditions that would be passed down through the generations. Then my son wanted a cat. So we got Winston. Obviously the child’s enthusiasm for feeding, cleaning up after and generally tending to Winston lasted approximately eleven minutes, and I became staff. Except staff are paid. Winston therefore decided he liked me. Well, "liked" is doing a lot of heavy lifting. He tolerated my existsnce.I did not like Winston. We had a perfectly satisfactory commercial arrangement: I provided food, he stopped screaming at me like a tiny furry crack addict. Then my eldest moved out and LEFT HIM HERE. So now I’m permanently living with an aggressive domestic abuser who wakes me up demanding breakfast, follows me around shouting, insists on affection and then, when affection is provided, attacks me because apparently I have administered it incorrectly. Then my little girl wanted a kitten. “It’s a boy,” I was assured. Excellent. James. James is not a boy. By the time we discovered this, James had been James for too long and nobody could think of another name, so she is now officially James Not James, or JNJ for texting purposes. And somehow, without anyone consulting me, I have become a CAT PERSON. Tonight Winston and James Not James are both lying on top of me and I’m trapped in a position last seen during the floor routine at the 1984 Olympics. I need a wee (possibly a fart (Im not taking any chances at mt age without a Tenna Lady)). My leg has gone dead. I think I’ve lost circulation to one arm. I cannot move because apparently disturbing either of them would constitute a war crime. And, annoyingly, I love the little bastards. WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN? Bob is my dog. Bob and I are soulmates. Bob has principles. Bob "claims" he hates cats. Except I’ve caught Bob asleep in bed with them, so Bob is apparently a collaborator. A double agent. I have been betrayed. I am now outnumbered by three furry freeloaders, none of whom contribute financially, all of whom occupy my furniture, two of whom shit in boxes inside my house, and one of whom openly assaults me. There must be an Ombudsman for this. The Feline Complaints Commission? Cats Ofcom? Catchment? A tribunal? I’d like to speak to whoever is in charge because this is absolutely not what I signed up for. Exhibit A