Cats “Just Chillin'”, So Back the Fuck Off

hoarding_animals

There were 37 cats randomly meandering in Daniel Hopkins’ abandoned house when officials went inside last Saturday. Hopkins had passed away while at a relatives, and authorities entered the home after complaints of loud noises and faint smells.

Apparently, however, these cats were not owned by Mr. Hopkins. In fact, according to their “leader”, they owned him.

evil cat

He called himself “Mr. Nice”. He was a fine-haired, black cat that sat with this writer for an interview, and gave me information about the deceased Mr. Hopkins, as well as the cat’s humble abode.

“They call me Mr. Nice because I ain’t fuckin’ nice, you see? We cats don’t kid around. Throw a string in my face, and I take it as an insult. You’re not playing. You’re gambling. Get it?” Mr. Nice was very determined to inform me and the other authories that this was indeed “their” house, and that they had muscled Mr. Hopkins out of the mortgage years ago.

“Listen, you, we’ve been paying for this here house for years, okay? Does it look like a human has been living here? There’s shit on the walls, on the window sill, and the AC is sky high every day and night. Don’t even talk to me about the electric bill.”

I did. I mentioned that they hadn’t paid any bills or their mortgage for over seven months, and that unbeknownst to them, if they in fact did not know, Hopkins has been residing in this very house for that very long of time.

“You must be joking.” Ruffles, a furry, snowball-ish white cat said. I’ve been flinging my shit around this house like a monkey for the past seven months, and that jackass has been watching the whole time? Good riddance. He never cleaned my litter box, anyways.”

I was fortunate enough to escape with minor scratches, as Mr. Nice swiped me with his right paw as I attempted to take a picture of him.

He was even more upset when the authorities entered as I was leaving the house, and the cats were all made aware that the house was being closed-off by the city.

“It wasn’t fit for shit to live in. And I do mean shit. It was a sewer’s ass in this place. Dirty fuckin’ cats.”

“I don’t give a shit, man. I’m not pickin’ up a damn thing.” Mr. Nice muttered, as he and the rest of his gang line-up to exit the house.

It was an interesting afternoon, one high-lighted by my first actual conversation with a cat, as well as cats that took-on human personalities. I wasn’t sure, but when I looked out of the corner of my eye, I saw one smoking.

And Sir Charles, a chubby, brown and orange, handsome tabby, was swiping one of the officer’s wallets…

cat in lineup

He was made an example of.

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