By Will Ross

Cats are probably the worst thing that can happen to your sex life. When you first step into a strange apartment on your second, third, or eighth date, these little tyrants are often all that stands between you and a sleepless, sweaty night.

Sure, claiming to love them seems like an easy way “in,” but you’re only fooling your date, and before you know it your eyes lock with the cat. You, terrified of this threat to your self-esteem’s last hope of redemption; the cat, terrified that it will not be able to get exclusive snuggles at its whim.

You sit on the couch. You find a movie that neither of you would really mind bailing out on. You’ve slowly worked your staccato body shakes into tremors, and you’re just starting to wrap your arm around your companion when, all of a sudden, the cat jumps up and spins around and shoves its face into everything, a full-on panic mode that works every time.

A vision may then appear in your head: the cat, gracefully spinning through the air in slow motion, before bursting through a pane of glass and falling to its death. Take my advice, do it — throw it out the window. This is not in the humour section; I am telling you to kill that cat. It’s now or never!

Well, I guess tossing it off the couch works too. Hey, it looks like someone appreciates assertiveness, because here comes Hot Lips! At this point, make a mental note to watch more John Wayne movies. You stand up with her, and start walking her to her bedroom. Oops, that’s the bathroom. You let her lead this time.

Soon enough, you’re taking off each other’s clothes. You’re not even sure whose hands are doing what; if one of you disappeared, it would look like the other was playing charades. Then something furry slips against your legs. Oh no. No, no.

It turns out the patio door was open, and that fucker just decided to hop on through. Before you can say “inside cat” your quarry is knocking on the doors of neighbours in adjacent apartments while you sit in the living room to see if your nemesis comes back.

And then, it does. The cat is right there at the window, staring at you. As you look into each other’s eyes, you see something you recognize — an insatiable need for affirmation, to be affirmed, always. The both of you are clingers, manipulators, forever begging for love.

I should have John Wayned the little bastard through that window back when I had the chance.