Hi my name is Callie, aka "Caaaalleeeeee," "yadumbcat," or a more recent moniker, “VeeVee.” I go by all of ‘em.
Yesterday, I was diagnosed with PTSD, or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
My symptoms? Phantom fur balls, mostly. I hack a lot. Hack.
The doctors say it’s neurological, a tic is what they called it, only I told them I had a tick a few years back, and this ain’t no tick, a tick’s a giant flea that don’t move, but they said it’s a different kind of tic, they called it a "brain hiccup" I told them cats don’t hiccup, they faint before they hiccup.I know this because one of my littermates, Celia, was always fainting and it turned out she had a diaphragm that spasmed involuntarily. She eventually grew out of it and then got hit by a car.
They tell me I’m famous now. I spend years perfecting haikus and now I’m famous for getting stuck in a twenty-seven dollar couch. That’s life for you.
"Cat gets trapped in twenty-seven dollar couch" You hadn’t heard? It’s all over the newspapers and Internet. http://www.thenewstribune.com/887/story/664313.html
Just to set things straight: I wasn’t "trapped" per se, I got in the couch so I could certainly get out of it, it’s not like they sewed me up in the thing, I just didn’t want to get out.
You try taking ninety winks and waking up in a strange house.
Oh, I knew it was a strange house the minute I gained consciousness. My people watch different channels and the couch doesn’t usually sag as deep (if you know what I mean.)
At first I was all quiet like, thinking it was a bad dream, a bad dream with cable, and then it hit me like a flying newspaper: I don’t dream. Hack.
I started meowing, soft at first. I’m really not one to meow. If I’m mad at someone I just glare, so my meows are a little rusty. Now Ernest, a guy I used to date before they drugged me and took me to the Mothership where, by the way, I got the flirt and flounce zapped out of me, he was a meower. The lungs on that cat…
Any way,back to my recent adventure, after a few days, without food, without water, without a litter box, I started moving around. I guess you could say I had a panic attack, one of those "Get me out of this couch!!" moments. Whatever I did, (it’s all a plaid blur,) caused the nice lady to rescue me and get me back to my house. Purr. Purr.
They tell me the PTSD will subside and I’ll be back to my daily routine of sleeping and eating and thinking of haikus.
For now, I am all tapped out, creatively that is, and you better believe I will never go near a couch again. Not in this life, or any life for that matter. They are dead to me, couches are. Hack.