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Monkeying around

This is my picture of hell:

The walls are made of fire, the ceilings of brimstone. Marching band music fills the air, and the only thing on TV is soccer.

And cats are everywhere.

I despise cats so much, that I'm sure if the deep bowels of hell exist, they must be filled with felines. If I were a Wildcat cartoonist, I could think of a different "Stuff I Hate" about cats alone for every day of the year.

I can envision myself as a 30-year-old father comforting my little daughter after the death of her little kitty.

"Daddy," she would say, staring at me with round, quivering eyes, "What happened to Spunky after she died?"

Then, I would laugh a hearty, fatherly laugh and hoist her onto my knee.

"Spunky's in hell, honey. All cats go to hell."

All cats go to hell eventually, but two cats are doing all they can to make hell on earth in my life while they're still alive. They belong to my roommate, Kathy.

I was introduced to the first cat on the day she moved in. When I saw the little bastard start scampering around, an inquisitive look must have popped onto my face.

"Didn't I tell you I was bringing a cat?" Kathy asked.

"No, you didn't tell me about him," I should have said. We'd only met one time before, and you said nothing about that demonic beast at the time. Had I known you were bringing a cat, I would have brought a large, rabid dog.

But no.

"Oh, you probably did, and I just forgot," I actually said, trying to play the part of Mr. Hospitable Roommate. "It's no big deal."

Soon, we got another cat. My "friend" Jim found a stray on the street and dumped him into the loving arms of Kathy. Jim and I have always "monkeyed" each other - a term we developed as freshmen in the Kaibab Residence Hall to describe little pranks we would play on each other.

When I yelled at Jim for bringing another cat into my life, he smiled.

"That was the ultimate monkey," he said.

From then on, we've had two cats, and they've been the bane of my existence. They piss on the living room floor, they get into my food and they climb up on the couch behind me when I'm watching TV and hit the back of my head.

They smack me on the ass when I'm trying to eat breakfast, and if I ever leave my bedroom door open for more than a couple seconds, they dash in and scratch up my bed.

I can't say that I hate all cats. Some cats are cool, and some are even worthy of my admiration: Mr. Bigglesworth, Toonces: The Driving Cat, Garfield, and even Mini-Mr. Bigglesworth. Wilbur the Wildcat also seems cool. But not his wife, Wilma - because when I was a sophomore, she sexually violated me in front of all my friends at a football game.

Getting back to the cats that I live with - sometimes they do things that make me wonder about their, um, orientation. The cats, both of which are male, are always licking each other and jumping on each other's backs.

Whatever they want to do in the privacy of their own litter box is their business, but I wish that they'd keep it out of the living room. I'm not at my apartment very often, but when I am, the last thing I want to see is two cats - regardless of their sexuality - doing each other.

Anyway, I'm forced to live in misery until my lease expires in May.

But even hell hath irony. Next year, Kathy and her cats are living with Jim.

Ultimate monkey, indeed.