My son John moved his family to Spain.
And when your adult children move overseas, apparently there’s a ceremony where they decide which possessions are too important to sell…
but not important enough to take.
So I inherited two things:
A Tesla… and two cats.
That’s a weird inheritance.
“Dad, here’s one of the most technologically advanced automobiles ever built…
…and here are two mammals who shit in a box.”
Thanks, son.
I’ve had these cats for about a week.
I’ve seen them twice.
Twice!
I don’t even know if I own cats.
For all I know, John gave me an elaborate set of instructions:
“Put food here. Put water here. Don’t ask questions.”
I’m basically running a feline witness-protection program.
Every night before bed, I put out fresh food and water.
Everything looks beautiful.
Then I go to sleep.
And apparently…
the nightclub opens.
Because every morning I wake up and the house looks like Motley Crüe spent the night.
Food everywhere.
Water everywhere.
Things moved around.
Occasionally there’s poop somewhere that poop should definitely not be.
And…
NO CATS.
Not one.
I’m walking around at six in the morning like I’m on CSI: Greensboro.
“Food bowl compromised…
water disturbed…
fresh fecal evidence…
suspects remain at large.”
Meanwhile, they’re six feet away under a couch whispering:
“Don’t move. He can’t prove shit.”
And again…
I mean that literally.
But here’s where things get disturbing.
Because I also own a Dyson 360 robot vacuum.
And the Dyson works at night.
That’s when I realized:
They’re working together.
The Dyson isn’t cleaning up after the cats.
He’s their accomplice.
And “Dyson 360” doesn’t even sound like a vacuum cleaner.
That sounds like a classified British intelligence operation.
“Prime Minister, the situation has deteriorated.”
“Deploy the Dyson 360.”
At night, the second I go to bed, one cat peeks around the corner:
“Is he asleep?”
The other one says:
“Give him ten minutes. He’s old.”
Then suddenly…
PARTY!
They’re eating.
They’re jumping on furniture.
They’re racing through the house.
One of them probably gets into the Tesla.
“Hey! This damn thing drives itself!”
And around three in the morning…
WHIRRRRRRR…
Here comes the Dyson.
The cleanup crew has arrived.
The cats are panicking:
“Jesus! There’s food everywhere! Hair all over the carpet! We knocked over the water!”
Dyson rolls in:
“Remain calm, gentlemen. I’ll take it from here.”
Crumbs?
Gone.
Cat hair?
Gone.
Footprints?
Gone.
That thing isn’t vacuuming.
It’s destroying evidence.
He’s the Winston Wolfe of household appliances.
“Gentlemen, we have approximately three hours before the old man wakes up. Let’s work.”
The only weakness in their operation…
is poop.
Because apparently humanity has developed artificial intelligence that can write poetry, diagnose mechanical problems, translate Mandarin…
and drive the Tesla sitting in my driveway…
but we still haven’t completely mastered:
“Don’t drive through the cat turd.”
That’s an important technological frontier.
Because when a robot vacuum encounters poop, there are two possible decisions:
Option one:
“Obstacle detected. Reverse course.”
Option two:
“Let’s see how far we can spread this son of a bitch.”
And suddenly what began as a small biological incident becomes…
a floor plan.
I’m standing there the next morning thinking:
“This turd has traveled farther than I have this week.”
Meanwhile, Dyson’s sitting innocently in his charging station.
I walk over:
“What happened last night?”
Nothing.
Just a little blinking light.
Lawyered up.
I know that bastard knows something.
In fact, here’s what’s crazy:
I’ve seen the Dyson more than I’ve seen the cats.
I know where Dyson lives.
I know where Dyson sleeps.
I know when Dyson needs electricity.
I know when Dyson gets stuck.
The cats?
Could be in Madrid with John for all I know.
Except they’re indoor cats.
So I know they’re somewhere in the house.
Which is actually creepier.
Think about that.
Two living creatures are secretly observing me…
all day long.
I’m watching television.
They’re watching me.
I’m eating dinner.
They’re watching me.
I’m walking through the house in my underwear…
somewhere behind a chair:
“Jesus Christ.”
“Don’t look.”
“We should’ve gone to Spain.”
People keep telling me:
“John, don’t worry. Eventually they’ll warm up to you.”
Oh, really?
THEY’LL warm up to ME?
Let’s examine this relationship.
I provide the house.
I provide the food.
I provide the water.
I provide climate control.
I provide security.
I provide healthcare.
They have a British robotic housekeeping staff.
And somehow…
I’m on probation?
That’s cats.
Dogs look at humans and think:
“You feed me. You shelter me. You love me.
You must be God.”
Cats look at humans and think:
“You feed me. You shelter me. You love me.
I must be God.”
And every morning, the ritual starts again.
I inspect the crime scene.
I refill the bowls.
I clean whatever evidence Dyson failed to eliminate.
Then I go about my day while two invisible animals evaluate whether I’m worthy of their presence.
But I’m optimistic.
Someday, maybe next week, maybe next month…
one of those cats is finally going to walk into the living room.
He’s going to sit down.
Look directly at me.
And I’ll think:
“This is it. We’ve bonded.”
Then he’ll slowly turn around…
show me his asshole…
and walk away.
Because apparently that’s cat language for:
“You’re growing on me.”
So that’s my life now.
My son moved his family to Spain and left me:
A Tesla.
Two invisible cats.
And a Dyson 360.
I thought I inherited a car, two pets and a vacuum cleaner.
No.
I inherited an international criminal organization.
Two American fugitives.
A British cleanup specialist.
And sitting in the driveway…
their getaway car.
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