Before I begin, yes, I'm aware that I'm a horrible, awful person. No one needs to remind me that I'm a heartless bastard on the order of that mall Santa on "A Christmas Story."



I don't know why I am, I just am. So when I post this article about the man who shot his wife's cat in a domestic dispute, I understand that I'm a horrible person for thinking that the cat... probably had it coming.

Don't get me wrong, the parts about the gunplay in a concrete-floored basement, the pot of herb left out for the cops to find, and the oh-so-well-thought-out disposal of Fluffy's carcass in a pond indicates that Mr. Vickers wasn't exactly the model of sound judgment, but hear me out.

Women seem to love cats for reasons that are beyond me. They can look past the swirling vortexes of disgusting cat hair that follows a feline. Cats barfing hairballs on the carpet isn't so bad to them. They don't blink when cat ownership includes mandatory sanded display boxes of cat crap that always pretty much smell like... boxes of cat crap.

But, worst of all, women seem oblivious to the fact that each and every cat – even one you might have rescued from unscrupulous fur coat manufacturers running low on real mink – hates you. Oh yes, they do. Sure, your cat might feign that they can tolerate your presence from time to time, but they don't care about you like dogs might. When was the last time you heard about a cat rousing a sleeping family whose house was on fire? When was the last time you saw a blind person with a seeing-eye cat? Did a cat ever pull Timmy from the well?

A cat sitting on your lap to get petted doesn't do it because it loves you. It does it because someone's gotta stroke out all the ticks and fleas it picked up whilst out and about the neighborhood, killing baby bunnies and helpless robin chicks.

Even the Pet of the Week, facing an appointment with the Blue Needle should he not get adopted, can't help but show his disdain for those trying to save his life:



In light of this kind of evidence, you have to feel for poor Mr. Vickers. He's smoking bowl after bowl of kind bud, but even this isn't sufficient to keep his mellow below the Wyatt Earp threshold. Yes, a pot-smoker driven to violent crime. By a cat.

To quote Chris Rock, I don't condone what he did...



...but I understand.