So Valentine’s Day just happened. Apparently, it was like a big deal or something.
As a publicly proclaimed cat lady, I’m not one for V-Day. Buying myself flowers and chocolates is just too expensive in this economy. This year, though, I got pretty into it. I figured why the hell not. After surviving the zombie apocalypse, I’ve taken on a more carpe diem attitude.
While the masses of Plymouth State frolicked in the effervescence of pink champagne, inspirational Dove chocolates, monogrammed teddy bears, bountiful bouquets of flowers, and the whispers of sweet nothings, I spent a romantic, candle-lit evening with a handsome, well-dressed, tiger-striped feline named Kevin.
In his bow tie and leather jacket, Kevin swept me off my feet. Maybe it’s the way he sprints to the top of the stairs when I walk in the room, maybe it’s the way he seductively licks the mystery residue off the living room side tables, maybe it’s the way he stares at me while I eat, maybe it’s the way he “flexes,” arching his bum in my face as I delicately stroke it. Whatever it is, I’m swooning, I’m swooning hard.
Historically, cats are the best Valentines. Here are some examples of cats who I believe would be more than satisfactory V-Day dates: Garfield, the original cartoon cat, not the weird, new one, Maru, the Japanese, box-jumping, YouTube sensation, Sassy, the frisky feminine feline of Homeward Bound, the Cowardly lion, post courage-finding, Stubbs, the write-in candidate elected as mayor of Talkeetna, AK in 1997, Tartar Sauce, the biblical name of the infamous “Grumpy Cat,” adult Simba, Luna the fashion kitty, tutu required, and who can forget Thomasina, the terrifically tenacious tabby cat of feline fiction and films.
Today, the fact still reigns true. Cats are awesome dates. They’re cheap because you don’t have to take them out. They can’t verbally complain or disagree because they can’t speak, so I’m always right. They don’t understand socially constructed concept of times so they love you more than just one day in the year. They snuggle. Really, what else would I look for in the perfect V-Day date?
And the cherry on top, cats don’t judge. If I wear my pink plaid flannel pajama set to dinner, Kevy doesn’t judge. If I eat an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s to my face, Kevy doesn’t judge. If I decided to capture all of the memories and Instagram the entire night, Kevy doesn’t judge. If I abruptly fall asleep mid-sentence, Kevy doesn’t judge. No way, José. Kevy doesn’t judge a thing. He’s the purrfect date.
Well, almost…
Recently, Kevy has been making physical attempts to take our relationship to the next level. He’s always been a big snuggler, but lately, he’s just been going for it. It’s terrifying, really.
It happened on Valentine’s night. After an evening of candy hearts and splendor, we were snuggling. He curled himself delicately in the crook of my arm, purring, radiating warmth against the sleeve of my newest second-hand sweater. Everything was perfect, and then it happened. Without a pause in his purr, he sunk his teeth into my forearm and started to thrust.
In rhythm with his hind movements, Kevy started meowing, a deep, guttural meow, moaning from the depths of his throat every few seconds. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I wanted his love, but I never imagined this. Appalled, I quickly thwarted his advances and tossed him onto the floor.
It didn’t work. The next thing I remember he was gyrating against my thinly socked foot. This time my self defense was swifter and more direct. With a decisive kick of the foot, Kevy’s climax was circumvented, and Valentine’s Day was saved for everyone, at least for the time being.
Later, it happened again, only this time a lonely comforter was his reproductive vessel. I couldn’t save the comforter. I just couldn’t save it. Now, my roommates and I live in constant fear of Kevy’s sexual advances. We actually have to clean the house, hanging up jackets, folding blankets, hiding pillows, all to prevent his feline fornication. Together, we are surviving.
There may be a language barrier between us, but Kevy need to learn that “no” means “no” and “meow” means “meow.” He’s reached that age. Soon, he’ll be learning how to drive cat cars, getting a part-time cat job, and asking where kittens come from. He’s growing up. I just pray he doesn’t fall into the wrong kitty crowd.
Despite his carnal antics, he’s still hands down the best Valentine I’ll ever have. He loves me for who I am, and that’s all I can ask for. And to all of my readers who are still bumming over a less than satisfactory V-Day, buck up. There is always someone out there to love, even if it’s just your roommate’s cat who only loves you because you feed him.
This has been your local Plymouth State Cat Lady. Pick up a copy of our next print issue to read more about the perks of being a cat lady. If you have any cat issues, you would like me to address, send me an email at bmshively@plymouth.edu. As always, sass on and stay purrfect. CATS. CATS. CATS.