My Cats from Hell. No seriously does anyone know how we could get on that show? We need help.

I have a problem.

It’s kind of serious.

No, dear Husband, I do not mean my inability to cook anything without minced garlic and/or garlic salt? Is that a problem for you? So what if it makes my breath smell and I burp garlic all night? Are you telling me you don’t want a piece of this?!

I’m talking about the cats. They’re getting wilder.

Yes, I know the wildness is to be expected when you get your cats from a dumpster. But it’s getting ridiculous.

Before I made an honest man out of Husband, it was just me and my cats (shut up, stop laughing). The three of us lived very happily together in my teeny tiny 600 square-foot apartment with the nonfunctional air conditioning and management who clearly didn’t give a you-know-what.

Sweaty, frequently without pants and unable to contact someone capable of helping, but happy.

Because the apartment was only thisbig, the only viable option for the cat’s litterbox was in the bathroom. Which was attached to my bedroom. Which was attached to the living room, but separated by what appeared to have been a door in the 1700s.

This meant, in order to protect myself from the ghosts and murderers who only attack you under the cover of darkness, I had to sleep with my bedroom door closed. Which meant that, in order to keep the cats from doing their cat business on my living room furniture, that they had to be locked in the bedroom with me. Allllllll niiiiiight.

It turns out cats are basically nocturnal.

Mine, at least.

These stupid beasts of the wilderness would run – and by “run” I mean SPRINT – around the room all night long playing their super fun game of “let’s see which one of us Mom is going to murder first.”

They landed on my face, they scratched my exposed body parts, they kept me up all night long.

Every night.

I was so done with it all by the time we got married that I barely even protested when Andy said no way, no how would those cats be allowed into our newlywed love den.

But wooaaahhh… let me just stop you right there, because somebody IS upset about it.

The cats.

Like, they’re pretty pissed.

I get it. They get booted from the plush, cushy bedroom into the rest of the house. Where it is dark. And there is nothing quite as soft as a cozy bed. And there are probably ghosts and murderers lurking about at night.

But still, really Mav with the pawing at our door and the meowing?

10:30 p.m.

“Goodnight kitties, I love you babies. Sweet dreams.”

*paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw* on the door.

“I love you too, babies. Goodnight.”

12:30 a.m.

*paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw* “Meow, meow, meoooooow”

Husband wakes up. “Babe, like, can you do something about the cats? I haven’t been able to sleep for a minute.”

“Well if they’re bothering you why don’t YOU go yell at them this time?”

Nope, that was not the right answer.

2:00 a.m.

“Meeeeoooow!” *paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw* on the door

“Seriously kitties? Go to sleep.”

*paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw*


“Shut up stupid cats! I don’t love you at all right now, you are the worst.”

3:30 a.m.

*paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw* “Meow, meow, meow!”

“Oh my Lord, one of you better be dead.”

5:30 a.m.

*paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw paw*


That’s when the alarm goes off.

Wow. What a lovely night’s sleep that was.


Real talk, does anyone know how to fix this situation? I can’t keep playing this not-at-all-fun game of cat and human, and Husband’s eye has developed a twitch.

It’s been this way for months. We’ve tried those cat-repellant sprays to make them stay off of things you don’t want them on, we’ve yelled really (REALLY) loudly to scare them away, we’ve held their noses up to the door while saying “No! No! No!” and swatting their butts, none of it works.

Andy finally gave in this weekend and let them in bed with us. I always knew he was weak.

Please, I am begging you, send help. We’re getting desperate.

How long do they put you away for cat murder?

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