Posts tagged cats

Letters to My Friend’s Dog

Jan 4th

Posted by Julia Prescott in Daily Blogs

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Dear Dog,

You are such an asshole.

Look. You knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Surely you could have been tipped off by the newly added tinsel to your master’s Man Cave that it was the holiday season and thus, your owner would be booking his way out of town for longer than you’d like.

Hey, If I had my choice I would have suggested he send you off to some sort of Dog Daycare or Canine Resort (we live in Los Angeles, I know they exist), but no – he got desperate – he asked me to watch you, this was obviously a mistake.

First of all, I reek of cats. I don’t just mean I own several and thus somehow emanate their cat-like odor (this is told to me by countless strangers in dog parks), I exude their common behavior as well. For instance, when your owner left I made a point of napping on every nappable surface. I also make a habit of stretching my body as far as it’ll go to reach something slightly unreachable, and I’ll paw at the sunlight out of boredom. These aren’t jokes, they’re just facts.

At least this dog knows how to make his adorableness productive.

At first I thought we were destined to be chums. Do you recall me getting up from my seat on the couch only to find you occupying that very spot moments later? I thought this was a declaration of your undying devotion and loyalty to me, the kind of stuff they talked about in Classic Westerns: Just a man and his dog (or in this case a lady and someone else’s dog) out to conquer the world.

It was only afterward that I realized you had peed on that spot, kept your mouth shut while I situated myself there and then held a straight face for the rest of the afternoon. Bra-vo dog, though I applaud your straight man ability for the sake of a prank, I must say you owe me and my ruined Levi’s an apology.  I’ll wait.

I thought your message was friendship, or perhaps love; it wasn’t until then that I realized you were here to cut a bitch (consider your message read loud and clear).

If my life were a cheesy holiday movie you would surely be the Buzz to my Kevin McAllister. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a deleted scene on the Home Alone DVD where that freckle-faced ginger peed in Kevin’s shoe, much like you took the liberty of doing on a daily basis.

But I’m above all of that dog bullshit. I’m onto you. When we’re walking out in public and you trail behind me like I’m dragging you out, I know what you’re really after. You want the sympathy vote, dog, I get it. You’re like a 5 year-old child to a deadbeat Disneyland mother, making a show to strangers in order to somehow indicate that I’m a bad parent. Well played, dog. Take a bow.

You wanna take me down dog, but lemme tell you something – this is not my first dog-sitting rodeo. Consult my Great Aunt for that piece of information, I think you’ll be surprised with what you find.

Sincerely,
Julia Prescott

I have friends too, dog. I have friends, too.

My name is Julia and it’s good my only battles take place with creatures with no opposable thumbs.

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You’re Not My Real Cat!

Sep 3rd

Posted by Julia Prescott in Daily Blogs

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They say you can never go home again, that after leaving the nest your parents will inevitably fill the void of your childhood room with foosball tables, gift wrapping supplies, or even a “guest room” that summons the creepy thought of their aging middle aged friends getting snuggly beneath your Star Wars sheets.

Given that I’m a child raised by television, I prepped myself for this – I had already witnessed several “Seinfeld” episodes where the Senior Costanzas turned George’s childhood space into an ill-fitting game room to house their new pool table. Parents taking up hobbies, parents trying to live out their gone and forgotten youth; parents finding other parents; that was the “norm” I inexplicably set for myself.

What I found when I returned to my Mom’s house to stay this summer was not predictable in any way that television has trained me for. I didn’t find a single illegitimate stepfather she had magically gained since my departure, nor a “recreation/guest room” in the space I had left untouched. Instead of any of these typical parent-with-adult-child symptoms, I discovered that my Mom had filled the void I left upon my departure with – yes – more cats.

I see through you, cat with an almost adorable mustache of fur. You're just a plaid shirt, a Budweiser and a trucker hat away from telling me I'll never make anything out of my life.

Somehow in the space between living with her as a child and returning as an adult with my tail between my legs (figuratively speaking) the Prescott family cats have taken on a more vengeful state.

Daily they glare at me from beyond my cereal bowl, contemplating how sweet the world was when they were the star of this particular sit com. Weekly they find some way to punish me for playing my rock music and sitting on “their” couch.

I just wish my Mom was a normal Mom.

I would happily trade the kitty piss in my black Keds for a shirtless guy named Jeff lounging on my couch and pretending to be a father figure in my life.

I would easily swap the hairball on my bed for my Mom even attempting to pull a Kris Kardashian and be a “super cool Mom” now that she has adult children and can return to the youthful version of herself she left in the ‘80s.

As a matter of fact, my Mother is taking a stab at this last one. Amping up her god-given “sassy broad” personality with an impossibly larger dose of sassiness; though all of this is arguably negated once she engages in full on conversations with her feline children. Which she does. And they glare at her back in silence. And she replies. It’s an eerie thing to encounter that silently encourages me to never be single for longer than 2 years.

I wouldn’t normally have a problem with it, but because of the cats – because of the hairballs, the poop, the piss, the problems; because of them making me feel like I don’t belong in my own home, I put my Prescott foot down.

My name is Julia Prescott, and you can claim my childhood room once you obtain opposable thumbs and pry it from my cold, dead human hands. ….That would actually be kind of amazing. Much more deserving of just living in a room in a human house, but you know – that’s a good start.

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