Farewell, Chewbacca

Evie and I walked to the commissary to buy groceries today. When we got home, I couldn't see Chewy anywhere. A minute or two later, he climbed down from the refrigerator, curious to see what we'd brought home.

I was furious. He's not allowed on the counters. I spent a good three weeks with tape on the edges of my kitchen counters, sticky-side up, to help him learn that jumping on them is a no-no. Just last week I took the tape off, thinking that maybe he'd learned.

Clearly, the tape didn't do the trick.

I yelled "bad Chewy!" at him, sprayed him with the water bottle, and put him in the utility room with his litter box for a time-out. THEN I discovered the muffins.

When I left this morning, they were sitting in a ziplock bag on the kitchen counter. When I got home, however, they were in the middle of the living room. The bag was ripped open, the muffins were demolished, and crumbs were all over my carpet.

By this point, I was seeing red. I immediately sat down and began composing my email to the shelter, explaining the situation.

They're going to have to take him back.

If this incident were a one-time thing, I would let it slide. When Chewy first came to live with us, two and a half months ago, he used one of our chairs as a litter box. It was completely ruined, and we had to throw it out. But we figured it was just nerves, and didn't worry about it.

He began spending every night in front of my bedroom door, waiting for a sign of movement, then meowing loudly whenever he thought we might be awake. I thought this might die down, but he still does it. If I wake up in the middle of the night and need to go to the bathroom, I can't make ANY noise, or he'll start meowing and wake everybody up. If Evie needs me during the night, I have to wake Ben up, too, so he can keep Chewy from getting into our bedroom or following us into Evie's. When I get up in the morning, I have to open my bedroom door carefully, and push Chewy out of the way with my foot, or he'll try to get into my room (where he's not allowed to be, because I have a mild cat allergy). Half the time, I end up tripping over him.

He loves to climb, as shown by his insistence on being on the counters (and fridge) in the kitchen. He also likes to bat at things. This has led to pictures being knocked off the walls. No glass or frames have been broken yet, but he's getting bolder. It's only a matter of time.

I have to disinfect the counters and the kitchen table multiple times every day, because Chewy climbs on them. He uses those same feet to clean up after himself when he's in his litter box. I do NOT want those paws on my eating surfaces. But nothing I've done to break that habit has changed anything.

Not only does he climb the counters, he gets into our food. I have to watch him constantly while I'm cooking, for fear that he'll jump on the counter and start eating our dinner. This is not an idle fear - it HAS happened before. There have been multiple times where Evie's dinner had to be thrown out, because Chewy got into it.

When we leave the house or come home, I have to sneak in and out like a fugitive, because Chewy will try to escape. He's not supposed to leave the house. That's what they told us when we adopted him. So I have to watch for him constantly while I'm trying to go through the door. Have you ever tried to get a stroller full of groceries and a dawdling toddler through the front door, while simultaneously preventing your cat from dodging around you and escaping? It's hard. It sucks.

Worst of all, Chewy likes to use his claws to climb on us. Twice now, he has jumped in the air and dangled from my body by his claws, leaving bloody scratches. He's done it to Ben and Evie, too. Since Chewy came into our home, we've gone through two full boxes of Band-Aids for Evie. I hate seeing her covered in bandages. And he doesn't just attack us when we're standing (although that's the most painful), he also jumps on us while he's on his way across the room. It's like we're a part of the furniture, a way to get from one place to another. Since he's usually doing this at high speed, and using his claws to get a good grip, I've gotten multiple bloody contusions that way as well.

But the muffin thing today was the last straw. I had hoped, in spite of the evidence of his time spent on the counters, that we were making progress. I thought maybe we could make things work with this cat. But then I come home to find that, not only is the counter situation unchanged, it's actually gotten worse. We don't have enough money to be able to afford our food being wasted like that.

Chewy thinks he's a person, and therefore entitled to sit on our counters, sleep in our beds, and eat our food. I expected the sense of entitlement, but I've never before met a cat that was THIS bad. I honestly can't do this anymore.

I haven't heard back from the shelter yet, and I hope they don't think I'm the world's worst person. I really tried to make things work with Chewy. I tried for two and a half months. But my whole life has become TONS more stressful. It's like having a really badly-behaved second child, one who disobeys, refuses to learn, and leaves a path of tears and destruction wherever he goes. The difference is, if he WAS my child, I would love him and keep working at helping things get better. It would be worth it, because of that maternal connection. But Chewy's not a child. He's a cat. And I don't love him - he annoys the crap out of me. It's all the stress of a truly awful child, without any of the benefits. I don't need that. My children will give me plenty of gray hairs, I don't need a cat that causes them to an even greater extent. Seriously, my two-year-old is better behaved than my cat!

I do feel bad about sending him away. Evie loves the cat, in spite of the scratches and dinner-stealing. She's an only child so far, and she's a lonely kid. We got this cat for her, so she'd have someone to play with. She's going to be heartbroken when he's gone. But as much as I love her and want her to be happy, I cannot live with this cat! I just hope that she forgets about him quickly, and that we can give her a brother or sister to play with soon. Siblings make better friends than animals, anyhow. And when she's older, and can take care of a pet by herself, we'll probably try again.

But next time, we're getting a dog!