This weekend I adopted a cat, and I love her to death, but I really wish someone had told me all cat people are a part of a super secret international cult whose mission is feline world domination. Had I known having a cat would make me feel this special I would have stolen my neighbor’s Siamese when I was going through my ‘awkward late 20s’. Now I’m 30, finally in this ridiculous robe, and half my assets are gone. Thank God I have a cat for my anxiety.
Honestly, I should have paid closer attention to the adoption papers I signed. I remember reading the parts about being financially responsible for the pet; but I totally glossed over the bit where I vow eternal loyalty as a Meowmber of the Catelite. Egg. On my face.
I mean, it all makes sense now: the mugs, the prints, the ‘my cat and I talk shit’ memes. It’s all adorably disguised subliminal messaging showing the world who’s really in charge: Some tabby on a throne named ‘Muffins’ who now has my information. I’m here for it, but a heads up would have been nice.
I should have seen it coming from the strange looks my cat-parent friends gave me when I told them I was adopting. It was the same look you get from someone who’s also in ‘Fight Club’. It’s a painful and scary process but you’ll see, by the way your cat sweetly purrs on your lap, that it’s also your life’s only true purpose.
I know I’m taking a big risk writing this, seeing as the last person who tried to publicly out the Cat-Cult Underground was Carol Basquin’s husband. There’s even a chance I may have to change my identity and go into hiding for the rest of my life; but people who are considering adoption deserve to know: If feline-centric-cult-life isn’t for you, maybe consider a dog. Praise be to Muffins.