My parents love their cats more than me
They couldn’t care less that I’m allergic
Ever since I can remember there has always been at least one cat roaming my house.
Having an asthmatic daughter who is incredibly allergic to these furry felines has not stopped my ‘rents buying, adopting or breeding them for sixteen years. Cheers.
Just so you can appreciate the amount of cats I’ve endured, here are just some of the ones that I can remember:
- Button (aka Bum Cat)
- Sweep (aka. Mum Cat)
- Chubby Black
- Not to mention all Mum Cat’s kittens who we didn’t name and gave away (that’s 4 litters btw). What a slag.
Why-oh-why do my parents continue to have cats when I begin a fit of sneezing when one enters the room. I’m a recluse in my own home unable to leave my bedroom without a roll of tissue and an antihistamine.
I am not the spawn of Satan and yes, I do have a soul. They are cute to look at (kittens even more so) but it’s hard to ‘awww’ at them when you catch them shitting on your bedroom floor.
And when two kitten litters are scuttling around the place, the high pitch meowing of newborns and the trail of piss and liquid poo that follows them soon gets old. Someone take them away.
I miss leaving food un-covered; turn your back for one second and the cats have eaten everything in sight. I’m also fed up of taking a bite of my dinner and having to pull cat hairs from my tongue.
Believe me, it’s a mutual hatred. I’m frequently attacked by George when I’m nodding off on the sofa (little shit).
It was bliss coming to uni knowing that I would no longer have to put up with them. I barely need to use my inhaler and I can’t remember the last time I had to dose up on Benadryl. I do dread going back home though and it’s all the fault of my parents.
So it’s time for them to decide.
It’s me or the cats.