The Joy of Cats

Mario and I are at the end of our ropes over the cats. The Little One (three years old) is destructive, mean, terrorizes the dog, and has clawed our upholstered livingroom furniture down to the wood interior. We can't have people over, because we are ashamed of our welfare looking livingroom set, but we can't replace the furniture, either, because she'll just do it again. And apparently all the vets in my general area have gone all Kumbaya on my ass, because not ONE is willing to declaw my cat.

The older cat (nine or ten) is the most loving, sweet tempered, sooky cat to ever come down the pipe. He also has some feline version of majorly fucked up eczema, meaning expensive shots at the vet every six weeks. Adding to his charms, he vomits in the house at least three times a day, in ever more creative locations. And no, I'm not talking hairballs, I'm talking vomit. Vet just kind of shrugs and says, "Well, sometimes cats do that." He is also an outdoors cat (he was originally a stray that Mario's son took in) so if he is left in the house when we go to work, he pisses all over our basement carpet, refusing to use the litter box.

I don't know what to do.

At risk of sounding like a heartless bitch who doesn't deserve pets, let me tell you I am a heartless bitch who doesn't deserve pets. And I am willing to admit that, if it was just me and Mario, I might very well suggest that I have had enough and it is time for them to either meet the SPCA or that big hypodermic needle in the sky. I'm not kidding, I am that fed up.

But I have a child. A child who is passionately attached to those two assholes. And well, shut up already, but I am, too. I love those cats, they are my troublesome babies and they make my heart sing, but the reality is they are destroying my house and I don't know what to do anymore. It can't go on like this much longer.