I don’t know why anybody has cats. I've got three, and I still don’t know why. Actually, that’s a lie. We have cats because we have no choice. They’re like your nightmare flatmate, the one who schemes and connives his way into the house via the backdoor, almost always on someone else’s ticket. And then the pathfinder moves out, and before you know it, your virtual flatmate is an actual flatmate, jumping up onto the kitchen table stealing the rib eye steak, rubbing its wormy arse all over your pillow and spraying its ‘scent’ into the corner behind the couch.
This is an actual guy called Billy I’m talking about, but cats are almost as bad.
Dogs on the other hand? Man’s best friend. Woman’s best friend. Best mate to the little kiddies and orphans and neglected old folk of the world. A dog will give its life for you. A dog will rub your feet, run your bath, pour you a double whiskey and responsibly post your blog copy for you when you just can't be bothered. A dog will always be there, gazing up lovingly with those big ol’ doggy eyes, waitin’ for the love.
Cats? Ha! Do you know where your cat is 23 hours a day? No. Because details of what goes on in North Korea are sketchy at best. But you miss a single feeding and those little hellions will be up in your face, chewing it right off your skull while you sleep.
Sure, they might be good at keeping the vermin down. (Although I’ve met plenty of lazy arse cats who’ll sneer at you like you’re a crazy man for even suggesting they might have a go at the fat, slow moving mouse that’s currently flat out on its back in the kitchen, slowly drumming its paws on a grossly distended belly full of imported French cheese). But mostly when they do actually deign to get up and do their bloody job it’s purely because as a species they’re a bunch of Hannibal Lector style psychopaths who love nothing more than taunting and teasing their victims for sport, just before they eat up their brains with a bowl of fava beans and a nice chianti.
Do I sound bitter? Because I am bitter. Three of these little raptors we’ve allowed into our house and the only time they’ll give you the time of day is when they’re hungry and suddenly they’re all “Do you know what time of day it is, mate? We’re huuuuungryyyyy. And we’re gonna eat your face if you let another hour go buy without filling our damn food bowl”.
Biggest mistake we ever made letting them in the back door.