Tuesday, December 20, 2011

On The Issue Of...

...Living Next Door To A Crazy Cat Lady...

"Get out! Get the fuck out!!"

This is what I awoke to at around 6:30am just about a month ago. Am I in some stranger's house? What happened last night? Did I go home with a rocket? I spun around and opened my eyes.

Latchelor apartment. Bed. Empty, save for this old relic. Regular Tuesday morning. What the fuck? Disoriented. Ten seconds pass.

A shriek.

"Get ouuuuuuutttt!!!"

A revelation. It's just the old fuckin' cat lady next door. Presumably the cats were making sexual advances on her again, and she wasn't havin' it. Get the fuck out, indeed.

The only known photo of the cat lady.
You see, I live next door to a bat-shit crazy old cat lady. I also happen to live in an apartment building with walls no thicker than tissue paper. Hence, the cat lady may as well be my roommate. Any tiny little peep made in this apartment building will be heard by your neighbour. She hears my contrived attempts to croon like Sam Cooke when I'm doing the dishes. I get woken up by her sneezing fits at 6:45am every other day. She bore witness to the time I brought a girl home two-and-a-half years ago, presumably covering her ears for the entire minute and 17 seconds. I get to listen to her make monkey noises at her cats. She bangs on the wall when I play a palm-muted version of Wheat Kings on the acoustic guitar at 10:45pm. I mumble "for fuck's sake lady" when she starts crashing around before 7:00am. And so we've built a wonderful life together. BRFs. Best Roomies Forever.

I see her in the elevator sometimes. Once every five months we happen to cross paths while running errands.  I even went to her apartment once to give her a bag of cat food that I had no use for after my parents adopted my beloved, if troubled, feline friend Johnson (the cat food gift was really a front for a reconnaissance mission – as expected, her apartment is a glimpse into the 1980s). I would describe our relations as cordial. I overlook the fact that she bangs on the wall every time I have friends over – no matter what time; she forgives me for sleepily telling her to "fuck off" when the cats get rowdy in the morning – I always regret my choice of language afterwards, but never apologize.

I once came home at 7:00am after working an overnight shift. I was pretty tired. She was walking one of the cats in the hall. I was initially unsurprised. This is back when I still had a cat of my own. On closer inspection, the cat she was walking looked just like mine. I thought maybe she had decided that three cats of her own simply wouldn't suffice. I thought maybe I'd forgot to lock the door the previous night. I thought maybe she'd snuck her way in and made off with Johnson. I thought she was now parading my cat around the eighth floor hallway; showing her off to all the other depressed apartment dwellers twiddling off to work that morning, or whatever it is these mysterious people do with their lives. I ducked into my apartment and quickly scanned the room. There was Johnson, lying on the bed, doing whatever it is a cat does when its owner isn't around. Turns out she didn't steal my cat. Hmmm.

Anyways, I don't really have a tidy way to end this little story. To sum up:

- crazy neighbour has lots of cats
- doesn't like music, or seemingly anything, really
- I used to have a cat
- hearing everything your neighbour does eases your own fears that you're some weird creep who would have no friends if any of them knew you occasionally talk to yourself

Merry Christmas.


  1. hahahah you are a TRUE writer! I loved this. Now when I am bored I look forward to visiting your blog. Amen Yeaman.

  2. I feel like I want to know more about this Cat Lady - I long for a more intimate look at what makes this wicked woman tick.

    I also feel the sudden urge to press my butt cheeks against your paper thin wall and give her a taste of my booty whistles