...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 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.|
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