Have you ever met a toddler with a severe attitude problem?

You know those parents who look frazzled in a supermarket? The ones trying to keep it together, who look like they’ve died a little on the inside & have truly lost the will to live, as they stand patiently waiting whilst their toddler from hell has the worlds biggest tantrum in the middle of the supermarket because they wouldn’t let them eat the washing tablets and is now in the process of a full on snot, tears and carnage rampage that would impress even Godzilla?

Yeah. It’s like that.

Only with more shedding, shit, vomit and dead things.

Never in all my life did I imagine having to apologise to everyone from the neighbours, other road users, pedestrians, people in the vets waiting room & the entirety of the vets staff within a half an hour time window.

See MY child was of the cat variety.

And he was a dick.

Newton, is what we cat lovers, think of as a problem child.

Parents with children who have behavioural issues worry about having visitors around incase their child decides to yank their pants down infront of visitors and start touching themselves inappropriately.

When you have an asshole cat, this is pretty much a given that at some point your visitors are going to be exposed to something equally as disturbing which everyone in the room will awkwardly & politely pretend isn’t happening.
You become a master of gas-lighting. You learn to act like there is nothing wrong at all, whilst your cat is acting out, mere feet from you.

Life with Newton was a always a surprise.

He would often find a way to one-up his previous antics.

Whether it be by vomiting on someone or their belongings, dragging something that’s screaming & fighting for its life in to the house & releasing it whilst we are trying to be adults and eat a civilised meal with other adults, or spraying up someone’s bag infront of them. Or biting them for no apparent reason other than because he decided to.
Or maybe deciding to shit on their flower bed, 6 foot from their front door right as I’m standing at said front door collecting a parcel, whilst desperately wishing the ground would open up, as he starts with a bout of explosive diarrhoea and spraying their award winning roses with liquid fertiliser.

Neighbour: “You DO know that the Local Village Garden in Bloom Competition starts this week and I am in the top running, don’t you!!!! Your cat is decimating my expensive Roses!!!!”

Me: “I did NOT know that. I am so sorry - here let me go get the hose pipe and clear that up for you! I am so sorry about this - he is usually so well behaved!!!!”

Newton wasn’t embarrassed by his behaviour however. In turn, I would be embarrassed for both of us.

People who hadn’t met him thought he was beautiful. Those who had thought he was a colossal fucking jerk.

I loved him despite his flaws as he had his moments when we were alone that he would be very loving towards me and make me wonder why he had to be such a twat and ruin it.

We had our love. He could be really nice and happy. Usually when he wanted some thing. Like food. He would be all affectionate and soft and caring.
I cherished these moments because I knew that it could all be shattered in an instant with that cat.

It was like living with someone with Dissociative identity disorder. He could be a complete asshole and then seconds later it was like it never happened, whilst I’m a nervous wreck.

If I had a glass of milk, you could guarantee that prick would come slinking up, all purry and affectionate, then try to wrestle the glass out of my hand.
Or when I’m trying to eat something and he decides actually, he now thinks he likes cauliflower. He doesn’t like cauliflower, however he has forgotten he doesn’t like cauliflower so is going to fight me for it until either I give in or he gets it off my plate.
And as predicted - Newton doesn’t like cauliflower, but he’s going to make sure he’s managed to ruin my dinner in the process of double checking that he doesn’t really like it and I’m not just trying to keep it for myself.

If you’ve ever had a dog then you are probably used to being engrossed in something, whilst you are sitting and the dog brings you a toy and drops it in your lap.
When you have a cat and it brings you something you’d better pray it’s already dead.
He would bring me things which I can only assume was his way of telling me that despite his asshole behaviour, he loved me really.

And I too prayed that when he did so, it would be dead. Not because I like dead things, but it makes it easier to deal with.
Dead mice stay pretty much where you leave them and apart from being a terrifying experience standing on one in the dark when you are half asleep and in need of the loo, there’s a fear worse than that and it’s that you might be being robbed.

There was more than one occasion when I would awake to the sounds of things breaking and being knocked over, convinced that some drunk has broken into the house and is currently fixing himself something to eat in the process.

And it was always much worse.

I think I would rather deal with a drunk than a half-dead yet still fighting for its life wood pigeon. Those things are fucking dumb as a post when fully compos mentis, let alone switching the kitchen light on to find one flying around the kitchen in a state of panic, smacking into everything, knocking everything over and bleeding everywhere, meanwhile the perpetrator in this situation (Newton) is sitting under the table looking amused. And now I’ve just opened the kitchen door the fucking thing is loose in the house at 4:30am.

Because why the fuck wouldn’t it be.

I never could work out how that fat fuck could manage to heave his ass though the cat flap, which by the way, he could barely squeeze his bulk through without a wood pigeon in his mouth, with, er, a fighting wood pigeon in his mouth.

I’m assuming he didn’t do a Jeffrey Dahmer & invite it in first for tea and biscuits & then decide to rip it’s chest cavity open for shits and giggles.

Or how about attacking me in my sleep just because I turned over and disturbed him.

Or waiting until I’m navigating the staircase with my arms full of laundry & he decides to go careering down the stairs through my legs for no reason other than he’s a fucking jerk and promply tripping me in the process. I swear it was like living with an asshole furry ninja that’s trying to kill me.

If ever you’ve watched Simon’s cat, cat man do - that was what it was like when I was trying to sleep and he decided he was hungry. Only he was always hungry.

Simon's Cat in 'Cat Man Do' - video dailymotion

That cat was like a fucking hobbit. 7 meals a day minimum just to stop him wasting away. He was raised on take aways before I got him as he lived above a pub in the centre of town. He was surrounded by food venues and drunken, clumsy idiots.

He quickly learnt how to obtain food from people and the rest was history. Trying to appeal to their soft kitty-loving side didn’t always work on someone who was so shit faced they couldn’t even focus on their feet, so he learnt other tactics.

Whether by terrifying the living shit out of them by warbling some ungodly noise from the darkness at 2:45am or dropping on them from a great height. Either way, he won the food and his victims would often need plasters and counselling.

Btw if you’ve never heard a cat warbling from somewhere behind you, from the cover of darkness at 2:45am then you are indeed lucky.

He did it to me and it terrified me.

I knew what was making that noise and it didn’t bring me any more comfort knowing what it was, as I also knew that at any second he was going to come barrelling from any direction at me and despite personal protection training, I would not be prepared.

Those raptors in Jurassic Park could have learnt tricks from him.

I once needed to go to London for an interview. I asked a friend if they could babysit him for me & my friend agreed but asked if Newton could go to his house for the weekend instead as he had stuff to do.

Now I thought this wasn’t the smartest idea, but my friend was insistent that it would be fine, he’d looked after other animals and would manage Newton just fine. I tried to argue my case but he knew best. I figured it was his house, he could be the one picking up the mess so what the hell.

So, I origami’d Newton into his box, drove him over to my friend, cleaned him and everything in the Vicinity of the shit storm we usually endured when he went in a car, when we got there (some 7 minutes up the road) and set up his tray and food bowls whilst he sulked and went to explore the house.

I left my friend with strict instructions for managing my disruptive child and was saying my goodbyes on my way out of his front door when I heard a noise from above me and happened to glance up.

That furry fucker had dragged his blinds down and was literally hanging off of his first floor window trying to force it open with his head to clamber out of it.
I pushed past my friend and sprinted up the stairs just in time to grab him by the back legs and drag him back in the window.
We added locking the doors and windows to the prisoner-watch list and I reluctantly left him for the weekend, dreading what I would come back to after abandoning him for 2 days. i apologised in advance for any behaviour my friend would endure for those 2 days. He assured me he would be fine.

From what I understand Newton showed impeccable behaviour for that weekend. Either that or my friend was so embarrassed that he was wrong and didn’t want to admit it had been the weekend from hell. I couldn’t see any obvious damage to anyone or any property so I gave them both the benefit of the doubt.

On my return Newton was not happy with me. He sulked and gave me the silent treatment which I was actually relieved for as it meant I didn’t have to endure a tantrum in someone else’s house.

Being as I’d gotten the train back and the station was up the road from my friends house, the plan was to get a taxi back to my house with Newton.

Well everything was ok for the first 3 minutes of the journey being as Newton was still refusing to talk or even look at me & the taxi driver had reluctantly agreed to let me in the car with a cat box. This was despite his better judgement and I’m pretty certain what happened next has put him off ever allowing anyone else to travel in his taxi with a pet. So to all of the locals in my town - I am truly sorry.

And at about 3 minutes and 14 seconds into that journey we both regretted it.
Newton decided he now didn’t want to stay in the cat box and started playing up, trying to grab me though the bars. I’m trying to block him with my suitcase and keep at a distance where he can’t reach me whilst trapped in the back of the taxi with him.
First it was the swearing and abuse and the threats to kill & then the smell hit us.

He decided to start a dirty protest.

Cue windows frantically being wound down, driver trying not to cry, driving one handed with the other is covering his nose and mouth. He risked killing us all by putting his foot down to get me and my furry turd-sack out of his taxi ASAP.

I’m profusely apologising inbetween the wretching and dry-heaving and the carnage unfolding in the back of that taxi at 3:15am.

Luckily the roads were mostly empty and because it was a weekend, it was seen as a given that taxis do 73mph through a 40 zone at that time in the morning.

Unfortunately this was also the time when Network Rail decide to do work on the Trainline that ran through my village about 0.2 miles from my house.

The taxi driver was probably relieved he could kick me out sooner, but now I had to get the screaming, shit-covered arsehole through the village, across a closed level crossing, back to my house, whilst carrying a suitcase and the fucking banshee is waking the entire fucking neighbourhood up with his noise.

Oh, and did I mention it’s been fucking snowing for the last 26 hours.

And I’m wearing high heels.

Today was not a good day.

At this point I’m wondering whether to just open the box and let him find his own way back, but being the ever dutiful parent I decide to try and wheel my case and balance the cat box on top of it and trudge the last stretch home.

The level crossing was illuminated with flood lights and workmen who upon hearing the noise coming from the taxi as it screeched to a halt in the middle of the road, had all stopped working to watch with interest as to what the hell was going on as the doors were flung open, the driver gets out and runs to the curb to be sick and I’m trying to drag my belongings out of the back whilst apologising and choking.

As I drag my case, towards them, im trying not to fall over in the slippery conditions, whilst wearing stilettos, carrying what sounds like an angry spirting cobra in a cat box.

Thankfully they decided to be helpful and raised the barriers and allowed me to cross the tracks. They offered to help get my baggage over but I decided not to add to the list of people who were liable to sue me for damages and insisted I was just fine.
Its -3 degrees, I’m in heels, with make-up running down my face because although it’s marketed as water-proof apparently it wasn’t tested under conditions of chemical warfare.

They stood frozen in disbelief as I amble across the tracks, weaving between them and their machinery, like Bambi on ice, trying to keep my head held high, dragging a suitcase and a rocking cat box which smells of shit and is threatening to kill everyone in the immeadiate vicinity.

It took me about 9 minutes to drag that fucker home because he weighs about the same as 2 large sacks of potatoes, but unlike potatoes he doesn’t stay still and just behave and let me carry him home. No - he’s fighting to get out the whole way up the road and trying to lacerate my legs. And I also know that unlike when dealing with potatoes, I’m going to have world war 3 to contend with when I open the box in the kitchen.

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DISCLAIMER: I can’t believe I have to add this but several of you are concerning me with your comments.

My work is satire. It is written as a means to entertain & whilst all my stories are based on true events, they did not all happen in a month. I had Newton for over 15 years. He was at least 3 when I adopted him. Therefore I have lots of stories from over that time scale. Yes if this was every day then I might have had to get some professionals involved, even if only to attempt an exorcism.

I do not wish to read comments about how you punched, kicked or smacked your cats. Also I’m concerned that some of you are questioning why I chose to keep Newton.

I have had 9 cats & fostered 2, over the years, so I understand feline behaviours and have had the pleasure of many different personalities. The truth is most of the others were just not so entertaining to write about as you would consider them boring in comparison to Newton.

Newton was very loved. He was in good health & was looked after. He may have been a little bastard, but he was my little bastard and despite having to scrub the carpets on occasion or apologise to someone & offer time replace their bag, I would not have him any other way.

In fact I would gladly do it all over again, just to have him back.

The vets were not concerned & described Newton as a strong willed, bold character who knew his mind and just didn’t want to let me stop him doing whatever he set his mind too - like a stubborn child. He was just a grumpy old man but he had his moments too where he showed me that he loved me really.

So, before you comment asking me why I kept him around, ask yourself - if I edited this & replaced Newton with a child who had behavioural issues, would you have have still questioned why I didn’t put them into care or up for adoption?