Can someone please explain to me why my cats have all of a sudden gone batshit insane?

Seriously. I mean, they’ve never been what one would call “normal.” I attribute this to our poor naming/parenting skills. Ramon is female and decidedly not Spanish, and is named after a squirrel that used to terrorize our place in Palos Hills. The picture of her on this site of her in the beer box? We started posing her in those after one Friday night when I went to get a beer and found her, comfortably nestled in a half full 18 pack of Lite, INSIDE the refrigerator. Luckily, we drink fast, so she didn’t freeze her little kitty rear end off, but still. Who lets that happen?

Potato is named that because Tony, inexplicably, one night when we were first dating created an elaborate crown that I believe was originally supposed to be for Pocahontas, but somehow morphed into “Squanto of the High Plains.” So that was his original name, but that seemed irrationally long for a six pound terrified kitten, so we shortened it to Squanto, which got switched to Squan-tater, which got shortened to Tater, which logically led to Potato. Logically. Yeah, we’re normal.

So it makes sense that the animals aren’t normal, sleep 23 hours a day cats. They never have been. They both bite and hiss and scratch and mostly only like people that either don’t like or are violently allergic to them. Ramon bites you as she’s purring on your lap or next to me in bed. She bit my mom so hard once she had to seek medical attention, simply because she picked her up. Potato, skittish to begin with, (you’d think we beat the poor thing the way he flies out of a room when he hears a noise or sees a dust mote) has pretty much been terrified of everything, including his shadow and excluding Ramon, since his journey into the wilds of Chicago Ridge last fall; also known as the great Potato hunt of 2009, or “Hey, want to see Courtney cry for a week?” I still wonder what my crazy neighbors thought, watching this poor girl with a beer and shaking cat treats, crying, “Potato???!!!! POTATO!!!” up and down the streets at all hours of the night. A friend of mine at work commented, “They were probably like, Jesus, someone give that girl some french fries so she’ll shut up, already.”

Since the day we moved in and found Potato curled up underneath the lone towel in the closet of the room we’d locked them in, we’ve seen him for approximately two hours. He hides under the dresser, in the closet of our bedroom, where he prefers to “make potty,” as it were, and recently, the closet in the extra bedroom. He was a big fan of sleeping inside the boxspring until the bed collapsed and I nearly had a grabber thinking we’d killed him for sure. He comes out occasionally to beg for treats with his little meow that sounds like he’s trying to scream at you, but other than that, we mostly only see him after he’s relieved himself on our laundry.

Ramon, however, has always been more social, more, “I want to sit RIGHT BY YOU RIGHT BY YOU ON YOUR FACE IF POSSIBLE.” In our last place, even if we were outside, she was right at the screen door, yowling to get out. Here, however, where we’ve spent nearly every waking moment outside, she’s separated by an enclosed porch and two doors. So I get she’s kind of lonely, but hello? Aren’t you a cat? That’s the main reason we have cats and not dogs ~ because they do not require the amount of lavish attention and responsibility a dog does. Oh, well, and because Tony hates dogs. But still. Cats are, by definition, self sufficient, are they not?

Anyhow, in the past few weeks, they seem to have gone even more crazy than usual. While it’s no big surprise that one of them would find the dice we were playing three man with (worst. idea. ever.) the night before, to find them both batting them around the wood floors at 3AM was disconcerting. They’ve also begun to sleep with us all the time. Which sounds cute in theory, but A) I believe I mentioned Ramon bites, and she is especially fond of the sensitive skin on the underside of your forearm and B) Potato, for such a small thing, has the determination of a pit bull and the consistency of a wet blanket when he has decided to sleep in between your scissored legs. Which means I woke up the other night literally with a cat on my chest, teeth in my arm, and another cat on my legs. One would think the sum total of 14 pounds wouldn’t render me helpless, but one would be wrong. Add to that the creepy shadows and extreme QUIETNESS of our neighborhood (No 18 wheelers and bright lights here!) and the fact that I’m apparently four years old and afraid of the dark, and it was a very scary moment, indeed.

In addition, the other day, I was sitting at the computer desk, trying to write something, and Ramon decided this was unacceptable and sat directly in front of me. Not unusual. I pushed her off the desk (also not unusual) but this time, instead of either jumping right back up or biting me or both, her eyes got wide and she ran out of the room. I followed her to investigate and found her literally trying to climb up the doorjamb of the extra bedroom, wild eyed, tail puffed up to extraordinary size, and yowling a tune I’ve never heard before. Now, she’s not in heat (took care of that little problem nice and early) but she’s been doing this every few days or so since then. Sometimes Potato does a flying leap from his hiding spot in the closet, which sends her trying to scramble even higher and makes it slightly funnier.

So, who do you think is haunting our house?? I’m not a huge believer in ghosts and such, but this house was built in 1880 something, so the idea of it being haunted is intriguing to me. Who would want to haunt US?? I could see maybe wanting to watch us, as we fall down and slam into things with alarming propensity, but to scare my cats? I’d welcome any thoughts as to who/what you think may be haunting the Drobicks. Until then, I’ll be closely monitoring the cats for any changes in behavior (and hoping that one of them is NOT peeing in my purses, for a change,) and trying to hide from them when they’re being crazy.

Luckily, they’re cute. (And GOD am I glad we don’t live there anymore. Is that a glowstick on the table? WTF?)