Whiskers, the cat from hell


For as long as I can remember, I've always liked cats better than dogs. Dogs bark, slobber, need to be walked, and you have to clean up their crap. Cats are more self sufficient. You pet them, brush them, play with them, and then you leave them alone. They like being alone.

When I was 7 or 8 years old I convinced my mom that I needed a cat. The goldfish just weren't doing it for me on the fun-and-amusing pet factor. So, we picked out a kitten from a pet store. Whiskers was black and white, and eventually, evil and from hell.

Maybe I was just naive, but I thought that if you played with, brushed and pet the cat when it wasn't doing anything else, it would like you. My mom took care of the feeding and the litter box. This wasn't the case with Whiskers. I think he hated me from the beginning and it just took a bit to for him to plan revenge on me. To this day, I don't know what I did to that evil ball of fur.

His first plan of attack as a kitten was to sit in a doll house in my bedroom and stare at me with his yellow-green eyes at night. I'll admit, it did kind of freak me out at first. He was black and white so all I could see in that dark room was his eyes. When this plan failed to scare me to death, Whiskers created a new one. I like to call it the "Attack to Death While Sleeping Plan". If I moved so much as an inch while in bed, Whiskers would come hurtling out of no where and pounce on whatever part of me was moving, repeatedly, with claws fully extended until he managed to stab me and yell for my mom to come get him. And I'm not talking just clawing me through a sheet or something, he managed to go through the comforter and the sheet on a regular basis. When my mom would come in the room, he would mask this face of innocence and sit there, pleasantly on the bed like 'what happened? She just started screaming.' Bastard.

A few months after we had him, my mom decided to get him neutered so he would pee everywhere and in hopes that maybe he would lighten up a bit. When they say that men are very protective of their balls, they aren't lying. And that even includes cats. Whiskers was nice the first few hours at home, probably from the sedative they gave him. He quickly returned to Cat From Hell.

In elementary school there was this thing you would do if you caught someone looking at you. You would open your eyes wider and push your face forward in a "wtf are you looking at" kind of thing. I have no idea how, but the cat managed to pick this lovely trait up. Even if I was looking to see where he was (usually for my own safety) he would push his head out in that fashion. I believe if he could talk, that face would have been followed with "yeah beotch you found me. Wtf are you going to do about it?".

I guess torturing me while I was sleeping wasn't good enough because Whiskers came up with another plan. When you walked down the steps, you were in the living room and that lead to the dining room and the kitchen. We had a coffee table in the living room with a bottom shelf that my mom kept knick knacks on. When coming down the steps, you couldn't see this part of the coffee table because it was blocked by the entertainment center. Whiskers decided this was his new hiding spot. I get to the middle of the coffee table and he would dart out and attack my feet. His new idea of attacking changed too. Instead of just repeated claws extended pouncing, he now would dig his claws into your foot and twist his paw around to make sure they really stuck deep in you and if you moved, it would only hurt more. At first, my mom and I just thought that he was playing. When we both realized that he would do this every time  I walked by, we realized it was much more serious. A vendetta of sorts.

My mom commented that maybe the cat just liked hearing me scream or something. Which seems odd since I don't know many cats that like high pitched or loud noises, but maybe he was the exception. Or maybe he just really did hate me.

It got to the point where I would need to call out to my mom or dad before coming down the steps so someone could shake his treat bag and get him to go into the kitchen. It was really bad when no one was in the living room or kitchen. Whiskers also didn't care if I had shoes on. That just meant he could attack my ankles instead. I could never pet him either. If I got too close to him, paws would come flying with claws extended. 16 years later and I still have scars from this evil thing.

My mom decided that maybe it would be better for me and the furniture if the cat was declawed. At least then I wouldn't be attacked so much. Great idea, Mom, but it didn't work. I believe that while sitting in the waiting room and on the car ride home, Whiskers realized that he could no longer torment me with his claws so he needed a new plan. When you don't have front claws to torture people, whats the next best thing? Oh, thats right, your razor sharp teeth. Awesome!

Demon cat had now decided that biting feet, hands, and anything else that got too close to him, was even better than having claws. It wasn't that gentle nip of 'hey stop touching me'. It was a 'I have every desire to remove all the flesh on your hand' type of bite. Honestly, I think a tiger would have been friendlier.

Whats funny is how nicely he treated his toys. He had a fake mouse and a felt fish with cat nip inside. He would toss the mouse around a bit, but always put it back in the same spot and lick its 'fur' so it looked normal again. He would bunny kick the fish and chew on it, but would always sleep curled up with it, as if he was apologizing.

I lived in fear of this cat for about 4 years. I couldn't walk anywhere in the dark at all and most times I couldn't walk around in the daylight without being attacked. He hated me, plain and simple. I was 12 years old when my mom realized that Whiskers had blood in his litter box. She took him to the vet and they did some form of operation on him for about $600 and it was fixed. He was a little bit nicer then, I could walk past him without getting attacked, but he never would let me pet him. Almost a year later, my mom noticed the blood in his litter box again. It was some extreme version of a Urinary Track Infection that would cost $4000 to fix. Four grand is a lot of money now, but it was even more in the late 90's.

My mom came home from the vet with him and explained to me that we would have to put him down. This expensive procedure couldn't even guaratee that the problem would be resolved and he might end up dying during the operation. I think he knew that we couldn't do it. The last week that we had him, he was almost friendly. I could finally pet him and sometimes he would even sleep on my bed with me at night. Not to try and kill me, but just to sleep. Even for as much as he hated me, I was still sad when we put him down. Most cats live at least 10 years and he was barely 5 years old. It didn't seem right that he would have such a short life.

It took months after Whiskers was gone for me to feel comfortable walking by the coffee table or moving around in bed. We would see cats that looked just like him all of the time and I would always wonder if he somehow got away and was still out there, or was reincarnated as another kitten, just waiting for someone else to torture.

You would think this experience would have led me to never have another cat again, but it didn't. Maybe I'm just crazy, but I thought it was worth another shot to have another cat. I got Gidget when I was 17. Her history will come later...

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