I’m young at heart. And I have a very youthful pancreas. In fact, my doctor said I have the gall bladder of a 20-year old. But though I think of myself as a kid, there comes a time to give up childish things—yet luckily for us, there is also a time to take them back. I think that time is around my age and the childish things I’m reclaiming are cat videos.
A few days ago this revelation struck me. I’d started to work on a chapter of my novel when a friend sent me a link to a cute cat video. This cat runs at top speed, dives into a box, slides across the floor and crashes into a sleeping dog. The dog wakes up and looks like, “What the heck just happened?”
Then I started watching other videos. They’re not all just cats who play the piano. There’s this one cat who jumps off a bookcase and latches onto a ceiling fan that’s going round and around. And did you see the one with the cat who adopted a baby squirrel? Good thing I have a bottomless ability to absorb adorableness and never suffer from cuteness overload.
Anyway, it’s suddenly three hours later and my husband is asking, “Hey, what were you thinking of for dinner?” Um, Friskies Moist Meals?
Cat videos are a time vacuum that sucks me in every time. I never learn, just like that cat who beats on a sheet of paper as it comes out of a printer. He hits it faster and faster, but paper just keeps coming. Then he falls off the table.
But you know what? I don’t care that I got sucked in. For those three hours I was happy. Forget religion, cat videos are the opium of the masses. I mean, the cats are so loveable that if they told me to hijack a kibble truck at gunpoint, I’d do it without question.
There’s no doubt in my mind that cat videos could save the world. If before contemplating any war, all factions were forced to view at least six hours of cat videos, they’d be so mellow no one would want to fight, unless, of course, it’s over custody of a cat.
Being a cat video addict. I’m glad they’re not Pay-per-view or I’d be so far in debt I’d be pawning my firstborn. And second. And third.
Yet, like any addiction, the first step is to admit you have a problem. I have a Maine coon-cat-sized problem. If I want to finish my book I have to quit letting cat videos distract me. But those sweet little faces are such click-bait. Still, I’m determined to exit YouTube, and then I see that video of the kitten who’s massaging the belly of golden retriever. I could watch that until my eyes fall out.
I know I must stop because I need to leave the house, but my inner child keeps telling me, “Come on. Just one more.” Well, maybe one. If I’m late the people at Dime Stories will understand.