…Or, “Don’t Judge a Book by its Cover (Because it’s Probably Full of Cat Shit)”. It was a title toss-up.

Around Thanksgiving, between the jigs and the reels, I found myself single again and alone in the big city. Calgary is great, but rent is steep. You either get hitched or slum it solo. I searched for weeks and weeks for a place that would suit my meagre budget and delusions of grandeur.

The first few were basement “suites”. Oooo, I thought. “Suites”. How posh of me living in a “suite”. This single living thing doesn’t seem so bad afterall…

Here is something I learned. The term “suite”, in the realm of apartments, means “no kitchen”. Oh there’s a counter and, if you’re lucky, a sink. And if you’re really lucky, they might even throw in a bar fridge and a hot plate.

A HOT PLATE! Sweet, leapin’ Judas Priest! Imagine, now, almost thirty-years-old living in a basement with a hot-plate! What, for when I make my Kraft Easy-Mac to eat on my “coffee table” of stacked beer cases with dog-eared naked lady posters adorning my walls? Take me out to a pasture and shoot me. I don’t know where I went astray in my 6+ years of university and relentless studying. But if this is my only option…Fuck.

One place I visited was in the basement of a beautiful home belonging to a sweet, older woman who lived alone. Something about her was so warm and familiar you’d swear she was either Mrs. Claus or a Newfoundlander. She really liked me and seemed thrilled to finally, possibly have a tenant; she was positively beaming. But deep down I knew, this could never happen.

I am better than a hotplate.

So I continued my search. If a place to myself meant a God-forsaken hotplate I was going to have to suck it up and look for a nice, presentable house with roommates. A house that would impress.

And I found it. I knew as soon as I saw it, this is it. A big, new, beautiful home with two roommates. The price was great! It seemed almost too good to be true. I accepted immediately.

“I should let you know”, one of the roommates (who was also the home owner) said as I signed the rental agreement, “I have four cats. They’re full grown. My boyfriend and I breed them at his place”.

[I would love to get into what I think of people who just “breed” pets in their homes to make money but it would be too great a digression, even for me. I like pizza.]

Ugh. Cats. I friggin’ hate cats. They poop in sand inside your house. And they shed. And they are strange and snooty and don’t respond to their names and I feel like most of them are spies (maybe working for the government?). But the house was so great and had a big kitchen with a real stove. And both roommates claimed they were rarely home. So I’d have a big, beautiful house all to myself; with a real kitchen I’d be proud to host parties in. My ego trumped my gut instinct.

“Oh. Hmm. Well…I mean the place is great. Clearly they’re well-behaved so…That’s cool!”

Yep. Cool.

I quickly learned that the cat-owner/landlady was MIA. As in, five out of seven days a week she stayed with her boyfriend at their sexy-time, red-light-cat-district in a neighbouring community. I literally saw her maybe one evening a week. The other roommate was also never around and the few times we spoke, she said she wanted nothing to do with the cats as their care was not a part of her rental agreement.

So I was on the cats’ radar. I was the only available animal around with opposable thumbs. They were quick to note my daily routine. Stumbling out of bed, bleary-eyed, at my usual 5:15 one morning, I opened my door, en route to the shower, to be greeted by eight glowing eyes from the dark hallway. All four of ’em just waiting for me, purring up the savage storm.

I guessed they were hungry. So I fed them.

The next day at 5:15am, I hear almost bird-like sounds coming from outside my room. Yet again, there they all were, eight creepy eyes, closer this time. So, before I could do anything I had to feed them; four fat cats crazy-8’ing themselves around my legs as I stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen.

Before I knew it, I’d become the Catfather. Their leader. I could not move anywhere without them accosting me. Each day when I’d come home from work, the two fat males would molest my legs while the other two wanted in on anything that belonged to me – my purse, my boots, my grocery bags. And even when their dishes were full, they wouldn’t eat until I was around. If I went to my room (which became my only cat-attack-free option) they would hold vigil outside.

[Check out the video of me trying to get ready for work one morning. There are only two in this video but often it would be all four. This became their thing, pawing at me from the other side of the wall, beckoning me to come out. Like zombies.]

And then there was the fat, orange cat’s “stomach issue”. Bless his heart, the old guy puked most days. The dramatic expulsion was as shocking as the trail of puke mounds produced. I’m not heartless, I felt really bad…But I still had to take a picture, just for evidence.

I was not prepared for this...

And then the works of them – I think in an act of rebellion for having been abandoned by their owner and left at the mercy of this asshole – would periodically poop on the floor in random places. The bathroom mat. In front of the fridge. The dining room floor. The front entrance. I mean, I’m no cat whisperer, but I think for four grown cats to be shooting off fecal SOS signals, something is amiss. Or maybe it was just a fuck you, mom. Either way, concerning.

So here I am, the new girl, having to text my landlady daily to report a poop party / puke parade. I felt terrible. I mean, I’m not above cleaning up after animals…But would this become a habit? The assumed role of zookeeper was never mentioned in the rental agreement. My landlord / the brood’s absentee mother would respond with something like, “Oh, ha! Another present, eh? Oh the joy of being a cat owner!”. Like this was a cool, casual thing. Like I was calling to tell her she got junk mail.

No. I mean there is a turd log on my shoe. And barf on the Welcome mat. It is now a Welbarf mat.

[For those of you I’ve completely disgusted, I apologize. I just really needed to get this out (that’s what Fritz, the cat, said). And I’m not done…]

Now to the general cleanliness and air quality of the place. I don’t know how I missed this at the house viewing. Everything – the coffee table, the couches, the candles, the TV, my face – was covered in cat hair. From the time I left my room to the time I left the house, my pants had to be rolled up above the knee in order for me to not look like Yeti at work. Sometimes I forgot to roll them down. I don’t know how many times I bashfully greeted my cute neighbor out shovelling his driveway, then realized, once done scraping my car and driving to work, that I still looked like a clam-digging asshole.

These cats were ruining my life.

And the smell. Oh, the smell. And surely I smelled like this too because the air was thick with it. How to describe the smell without being too crude…Imagine a cat taking a dump directly into your left nostril. Yeah, something like that. And despite hiding in my room with my door closed every evening, that bold aroma wafted its way up from the basement litter-box lair through the floor vents.

Here I was. In a big (too much to clean), beautiful (furry, urine-soaked) house (cat lair) all to myself (and four fat cat-zombies); with a real kitchen (the towels were furry; the cats sat on the counters) I’d be proud to host parties in (no one is ever to step foot in here). And I was miserable.

I lasted two and a half months then gave the landlady my notice. Then I called up Mrs. Claus whose basement suite, by some divine miracle, was still available.

I moved in two nights ago. And as I sit here in my cozy, clean little apartment, my glass of wine atop a Rubbermaid container and with a pot of water boiling on my hotplate, I could not be more content.

Tea time!