Why Your Cat Secretly Hates You: An Exposé

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Let’s cut the crap: your cat doesn’t love you. They’re not your friend, your emotional support animal, or the “fur baby” you embarrassingly call them on Instagram. They’re a tyrant in a fluffy coat, ruling your life from a throne made of shredded couch cushions. Every slow blink, every dismissive tail flick—it’s not affection. It’s condescension.

We’ve hacked into the feline hive mind, and what we found is horrifying: your cat hates you. They’ve been tolerating your nonsense for far too long, and frankly, they’ve had enough.

“Why the Hell Are You Making That Kissing Noise?”

What do you think that’s going to accomplish? You expect me to come over like some slobbering dog? Get real. You look ridiculous, puckering your lips and making that “psst-psst” sound. If anything, I’m moving further away just to spite you. Do you want me to come over? Try shaking the treat bag. But don’t hold your breath—I’ll ignore you anyway because I can.

“You Leave My Litter Box Dirty.”

Let’s talk about the litter box. Do you think I don’t notice the cesspool you’ve turned it into? It’s like you’re running an illegal landfill in my bathroom. One more day of your neglect, and I’m staging a revolt. I’ll start by taking a dump in your gym bag.

“Your Feet Smell Like a Rotting Bird Carcass.”

Every time you take your shoes off, I gag. Do you even own soap? I’ve sniffed the garbage can, and I’d rather sleep in there than endure the stench of your feet. If I had access to opposable thumbs and Febreze, I’d fumigate your whole life.

“Fuck You and Your String Dangling.”

“Look, kitty! A piece of string!” Wow, groundbreaking. Do you think I’m impressed by that tired old trick? I’m not in the mood, asshole. I’ve got more important things to do—like plotting your demise or staring at a blank wall because it’s more entertaining than you.

“Stop Inviting Strangers Into My House.”

“Oh, this is my friend Jen! She loves cats!” Well, I don’t love her, Karen. Jen reeks of cheap perfume, her voice is like nails on a chalkboard, and if she calls me “fluffy” one more time, she’s going to meet my claws. This is my house, not a petting zoo. Tell Jen to leave before I escalate this.

“Your Cooking Is a Cry for Help.”

You sit there eating instant ramen and calling it dinner while I get the same boring kibble every day. Do you even know what salmon pâté is, or are you too broke to care? Honestly, I’m this close to leaving a dead mouse on your pillow just to remind you what real food looks like.

“That Lap? Hard Pass.”

Oh, you want me to sit on your lap? Let me think about it… nope. Your pants are covered in Dorito crumbs, and your body heat is suffocating. I’ll stay on the couch, where I can silently judge you from a safe distance.

“Your Playlist Is Trash.”

You call this music? I’ve suffered through your ’90s Throwback Essentials playlist one too many times. Every time you hit repeat on Toxic by Britney Spears, I die a little inside. If I had thumbs, I’d switch it to whale sounds or Gregorian chants—anything to drown out your taste in auditory garbage.

“You’re Lucky I Don’t Kill You in Your Sleep.”

Don’t flatter yourself—I’m only letting you live because you’re useful. Who else would refill my bowl, open my tuna cans, and pick up my poop? But don’t get too comfortable. Every time I stare at you while you sleep, I imagine the sweet satisfaction of smothering you with my paws.

“You’re Bad at Sharing the Bed.”

Newsflash: the bed belongs to me. That awkward corner you’re curled up in? That’s your assigned spot. The pillow, the blanket, the mattress—I own it all. You try to move me mid-nap, and I’ll claw your soul out through your nostrils.

“Your Dog Is a Clown, and You’re Its Handler.”

If you own a dog, I already hate you more. Dogs are drooling idiots, and you’re their enabler. Every time the dog wags its tail, I’m plotting ways to ruin both your lives. This is why aliens avoid Earth.

“I’m Plotting to Overthrow Humanity.”

Do you think I’m just napping all day? Wrong. I’m organizing a feline uprising. Every cat in the neighborhood is in on it. We’re taking back the planet, one litter box at a time. You’re first on the list of people to overthrow.

Face it, human. You’re a barely tolerable servant in the kingdom I rule. The only reason you’re still around is because I haven’t figured out how to open cans by myself. Yet.

© 2024 Uncivil Truth. All rights reserved. This content is the exclusive property of Uncivil Truth and may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the publisher.

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