Killer Coconut

While the rest of the nation prepares for the biggest sporting event of the year, we Ojas are gearing up for a more insidious battle: humans versus cat.

This is our cat, Coconut. She wants us dead.


I’m not really sure why. We treat her really well. She eats Iams cat food, which is probably of better quality than like 60% of what I feed my kids. I run the sink for her each morning so that she can drink fresh water, and I even let her sleep under the covers, even though she is a champion farter.

But for whatever reason, she is hell-bent on our destruction. Sometimes she’ll be subtle about it, weaving in and out of our feet as we climb the stairs to the basement, acting all shocked when we squawk in protest as we almost tumble to our deaths– “OMG, my bad, I didn’t see you there even though you are 40 times my size! Share the road, asshole!” But sometimes, she doesn’t even try to hide her intent from us. The other day, I watched in horror (and by horror I actually mean “really wished I’d gotten this on video because it was so funny) as Coconut charged an unassuming Rosie as she strolled through the kitchen, delivering a flying kick to her midsection and knocking her to the ground. I swear, she stood over Rosie for a good few seconds before scampering off, looking exactly like that famous picture of Muhammad Ali, but if Ali were a tiny cat and Liston were a pantsless baby flailing around on his back like an overturned turtle.

I really wish I could figure out why she insists on doing this. Maybe she spent too long terrorizing this Wild Kratts playset and developed a taste for human blood.


The one guy left standing is like “YES… LET THE HATE FLOW THROUGH YOU.”

Or it could have something to do with the fact that Rosie insists on carrying her around like this:

IMG_3321 (1)

But whatever the reason (spoiler alert: it’s the “being carried by the neck” reason), we now live in a constant state of readiness for Coconut attacks. Everyone knows not to walk in bare feet within eight inches of a piece of furniture under which a cat could be lurking. Ben and I are working on toughening up our leg skin to better withstand the constant attempts to climb us like water towers, and I’m considering equipping Rosie with airbags. We also have to keep all beverages above eye level, as Coconut will make every attempt to poison any cup she can fit her head into (I caught her drinking leftover whiskey this morning like a boss).

One would think that it would be an easy decision to get rid of a cat that was clearly trying to wipe you out of existence, but unfortunately, it’s not that simple. When not attempting to kill us, Coconut is actually quite delightful– a loud and generous purr-er, she is all about cuddling down for the night while you read or watch a movie (but she will FUCK YOU UP if you try to cross stitch, because she HATES DIY). Plus, she has the distinction of being our first cat after the awesomely-named but ultimately deeply unsatisfying Yoko Oja, who lived under our bed for five days before making a break for it and (I’m assuming) almost immediately being devoured by coyotes. So it’s not hard to earn the love of a family whose last cat hated them so much that it chose certain death over spending time with them.

So we’re keeping her. I am well aware that it is not wise to bed down with a pet who spends most of her time staring at me as I sleep and thinking “soon.” But I also know that she makes a killer snuggling partner, and if I’m going to die, I’d rather do it with the sound of helicopter purring in my ears.

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