I Hate Meatloaf

Not the food. The food combines all the goodness of both shredded meat chunks and bread particulates...delicious. Allow me to introduce you to Meatloaf:

Meatloaf is the office cat at the shitty office I used to work at. I suppose that's a bit redundant to say, as all offices that have cats are, by definition, shitty offices.

Quick facts:
Office + cat(s) = shitty office
Home + cat(s) = shitty home
Bonfire + cat(s) = good bonfire

Meatloaf wasn't actually the cat's name, it was actually Milo. Due to the cat's steadfast obesity however, I'd given it the moniker of Meatloaf. Although if I had my way the cat would remain nameless, and would only be referred to as "Cat" or "The Pile".

This worthless creature had turned my once-supple hands into throbbing, bloody stumps unfit for touching even myself. Once upon a time my clothes used to be made of such industry standard fabrics as cotton and polyester, but post-cat they'd been reduced to being mostly made of oily strands of demon hair. In light of these facts, during my employment there, Meatloaf had become my sworn enemy and the bane of my existence.

Intense zoological studies have concluded that cats are extremely worthless creatures that consider themselves better even than the caregivers that are responsible for the continuation of their barren, meaningless existence. Even with this scientific knowledge in mind, Meatloaf somehow managed to set a new all-time low for cats
everywhere. I've never seen this walking tumbleweed ever move about for more than six minutes without having to resort to a two hour nap to recharge it batteries, which I presume are powered by sleep and the intense anguish the cat causes to other living beings.

Even though my enemy can't be looked upon by others without causing a feeling of disgust, and even though it shits in a box, it still felts that it was somehow better than me. I know not under what circumstances this being came to call the work office home, but archeological inquiries state that it had been here for at least twelve human years, putting it at 439 cat years approximately. Although the true age of the cat could only be determined by cutting it in half and counting its rings.

Always Staring, always judging

I had no idea about what kind of cat Meatloaf was; some said calico, some said slut, I guessed retarded, but no one knew for sure. One thing that was known was that it appears to live forever, and has probably tormented countless offices and indian tribes throughout it's timeline in the San Diego area, and would probably continue to do so for countless centuries to come.

Everyday I arrived at work I felt a sadness begin to fill me. Sure, part of the reason is that I hated my job and loathed the people I work for, but I attribute most of this sadness to the realization that I saw Meatloaf alive every time I stepped foot into the building. Everything has to die at some point, but it seemed like my patience and physical well-being would long be dead at the claws of Meatloaf long before it itself kicked the bucket.

Feel pity for the cat if you must, but as much as the both of us had sworn destruction upon each other, the fact is that both the cat and I knew how truly awful its life was.

I've complied a list of ways in which Meatloaf both offended me and shamed itself:

• Not knowing the exact breed of cat Meatloaf was, I can only estimate this figure, but I guesstimated that it was at least 5 pounds into the category of obese. It appeared to only get one bowl of cat food per day, but somehow this meager amount of food translated into Meatloaf taking the form of a spilled a bowl of Jell-O made with hair anytime it laid down.
• The odor emanating from the cat's mouth every time it meowed, yawned, or bit you in a fit of rage was quite offensive. The only thing I can liken it to is the smell of the inside of a chemical toilet after many uses. This leads to only one explanation: fourteen construction workers pissed and shat into Meatloaf's mouth on a daily basis.
• Meatloaf constantly got its own claws caught on either the carpet or chairs, leading to embarrassing bouts of it being stuck in funny positions trying to fight free. Inevitably this led to the claws falling out of the cat, which explained the unknowing treasure hunt of finding claws all over the office.

The pre-attack position. What a dick.

Although I would occasionally set aside my anger towards Meatloaf in an effort to promote a short-term peace, this was rarely a good idea. Moments of serene, everyday petting quickly turned into violent, bloody, smelly, attacks for no given reason. Purring is normally associated with a cat being happy, but Meatloaf simply
used this as a ploy to lure you and make you feel secure before tearing into your flesh, with claws that would probably just fall out in your skin. Smacking Meatloaf in the face did seem to end these bouts quite quickly, however.

The only thing that seemed to bring solace to the cat, was the simple joy of rubbing its disgusting face against inanimate objects. My desk, my personal belongings, my chair, it mattered very little to Meatloaf, as long as stinky saliva and 450 strands of cat hair end up on whatever the subject of the face assault is.

Sure the brush is made of metal spikes, but face rubbing must be done.

Out of morbid curiosity and the desire to understand more about my foe, I rubbed the skin of one of my coworkers with the metal brush with which the demon cat seemed to use in some sort of auto-erotic face masturbatory activities. He informed me that it hurt. This is troubling news, as I knew that my arch nemesis thrived on and loved pain. All my attacks would simply result in pleasure for the sick, hairy fuck.

My psychological attacks should remain as effective as always however. Therefore I just had to double-up on my soft, demoralizing whispers that I feed to Meatloaf on a daily basis.

"Worst cat ever. Worst cat ever." seemed to work pretty well.

In a last ditch effort to humiliate my opponent, I shall leave you with a photo of the hair we had collected from chairs around the office and from the cat itself. For size reference, I've placed the collection next to the demon spawn itself.

That's right. Keeping looking smug. I won't let you win.