When you look up the word communicable you find this definition: Able to be transmitted from one sufferer to another; contagious or infectious.  Let me emphasise the word SUFFERER.

I detest cats.  I will be the first to admit that.  I am sorry to all cat lovers, but I have had a strong dislike for them since the age of three when I tried to pull a wild kitten out from underneath our house and nearly got my eyes scratched out of my cranial cavity.  I had never seen anything so small be so vicious.  That began my lifelong hostility toward the species.

I told my husband this morning, “When I get to the other side, I am going to ask God other than catching mice what real purpose do cats have?”  I am sure he cringed, because he used to be a cat person.  If I had been Pharoah and the first plague Moses sent was cats, he would have wasted no time on me.  I would have given them all airline tickets to fly where ever they wanted just to be rid of the cats.

Cats were a topic of disagreement when my husband and I first got married.  I nearly ended the relationship before we got married when I walked into his home the first time and saw a long-haired, four-legged epidemic walking around.  I nearly gagged.  My mother detested cats as much or more so than I.  Seeing a cat in the house was next to the sin of murder for her.  In her older years, she did soften enough to take my brother’s cat in because my sister-in-law had become allergic.  She just agreed to keep it at the house, not in the house. Which was a switch for “Tom” because he had always been an indoor cat.  This was during a remodeling project and my mother went to bed one night to find that the cat had snuck in and had curled up and went to sleep on her bed.  I can’t even begin to explain the sound that came from her or the sound from the cat when they discovered each other.  Wasn’t pretty.

In LDS wards, the ladies are asked to watch over other ladies in the ward.  We make regular visits to check up on them to make sure they are O.K. and if they need anything.  When I was four years old, my mother was given a lady to visit.  I think my mom was the only woman in the ward that would actually go because this woman had 50 cats. They all lived in her house.  Since I was not in school, I went with my mom.  I remember standing on the sidewalk, putting on the breaks and screaming that I was not going into that house.  I couldn’t stand the smell.  It almost made me barf.  Bless my poor mother’s soul, she was still faithful and checked up on this woman consistently despite that fact that she detested cats more than I.

These two events alone have solidified my dislike for felines in every sense of the word.  I would never hurt one, but I sure as heck don’t want to see them, smell them or touch them.  I am allergic so that helps.

Before I got married I worked with a lady that owned cats.  I am not sure if she even realized the smell that accompnaied her.  Even her breath  smelled like a cat crawled in her mouth and died.  She would come to my desk and use my phone and I would go to pick it up to use afterward and dry heave.  I felt bad for her because everyone mentioned the smell permiating off of her.  I don’t think she even noticed.

A few years ago, on a hot summer’s day I got into my suburban one morning to go somewhere and realized that two cats had been in my vehicle.  One, for the smell and two for the pile of poo laying on the floor.  Carp hit the fan.  For weeks and weeks and weeks that smell lingered, slapping me in the face every time I got in to drive.  We went through every kind of chemical known to mankind to remove that smell.  Nothing got rid of it.  That was the first time I had seriously considered murdering any of God’s creations.

As of late, I have come out to find paw prints on my Durango.  This is unacceptable people.  We live in the country where everyone in the city thinks that everyone in the country needs and wants a cat.  Nay nay people. 

I have taught my pugs to dislike cats.  The only thing that has sunk into their flat heads.  When a cat comes on the TV, they go nuts.  They think they are real. It is really entertaining.

Well…the other night we came home to find this “disease” walking around my house.  I warned my children not to touch, not to look at, not to pick up and not to feed.  Those are the ways that “diseases” stick around and you never get rid of them. 

My daughter, despite my protests wanted to catch it.  She couldn’t leave well enough alone, she had to show the pug the cat.  Well, you would have thought the world was coming to an end.  I didn’t know pugs could make that kind of sound.  Both of them started tearing up the house trying to get out.  When we finally let them out the back door, one of them nearly parted the planks on the deck trying to take off.

When we finally got them back into the house, Lola was still going nuts.  She ran around the house like there was so evil force pushing her to commit suicide.  It was weird.  To prove my point, I was trying to do laundry and she came barreling out into the laundry room all in a tizzy and jumped into the dryer.  I am not sure if she had a brain lapse and thought it was the back door open or what.  She has never done anything like that.  I stood there dumbfounded.  That cat has messed her up big time.

This morning it is still hanging around.  Trying to rub up against me.  Yuck!  It might as well urinate on me. That is so disgusting.  My children, bless their hearts, have such tender feelings for all animals.  I just don’t share the love with cats.  My son wanted to build it a home to keep it out of the rain.  I told him when they were created they had no shelter.  They don’t need one now.  It is just one more step in that cat’s mind of taking over my home.  Not going to happen.  I will not yield! You will have to put me and the dogs in a padded cell or we will hurt someone or something.

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