That's Not A Cat, It's Mold

Unfortunately, places that allow pets are hard to find. Landlords and property owners are increasingly concerned with the cost of housing a horde of feral tabbies. Some believe animals “damage property” just because they claw at things until doorjambs and carpets are shredded, spray the scent of sour discontent in the corners of rooms and stain carpets. Sometimes cats do meow or screech a little, but that’s negligible, unless you have one of those really loud cats, but those are rare, like 1 in 2. We never mentioned to our landlord that we have two cats because we thought he wouldn’t want to hear about them since he hates animals. He has a no-pets clause, but they aren’t pets, they’re more like roommates.

I have found that lying to your landlord about whether you have cats and how many is a tricky business and I have developed some expert tips. I have played out the scenario many times and have many suggestions for smuggling pussy. What’s needed is a decent cover story, explaining what the sighting might actually be, instead of a cat. Here are some useful cat lies to get you started:

That’s not a cat, it’s just my Uncle Rocky. He was cursed hunting antiquities in Egypt and forced to take that shape until we find an antidote antiquity to break the curse.

Cats? I don’t see anything. Do you also smell burnt toast? Maybe I should call ‘911’. . .

Hah! Cats! No, no those are dog toys. No, I don’t have a dog.

Cats in the window? So strange, I’ve been meaning to ask you if this building was constructed on an old Native American cat burial ground because there’s been some potentially paranormal cativity.

No, that’s just my Roomba. I made an angora cozy for it, but the cozy sheds. Lucky I have this Roomba.

Oh goodness no, I’m allergic to cats. That was a tumbleweed. Yes, I know it’s summer in Connecticut, but climate change is real and desert-like conditions will be the new norm before we know it, so time to rethink your carbon-wasting behavior.

Cats? What are cats?

What meowing? Oh that’s not meowing, that’s my nature sounds machine set to “housepet.” Weird coincidence, though. I could see how you would get confused.

That’s not a cat, that’s my moldy cheese wheel. I’m saving that for a special occasion, like a bar mitzvah.

That’s my cousin Stevie. He was recently cast in an off off off off off Bradway production of CATS! and he doesn’t like to break character. As a matter of fact, you should leave, he gets agitated before a performance and is a bit of a diva.

Excuses and lies can range from subtle to extreme, but say and do whatever is necessary to hide those cats and lie about them. Teach them to swim and stuff them in the toilet, nobody looks for things in there. Personally, I have chosen to dig a complex system of tunnels, or CATacombs under my rental house where the floors are lined with clumping litter.

No matter what happens—even if your landlord bursts into your kitchen unannounced to find you singing “The Hills Are Alive With The Sound Of Music” while swinging a feline by the tail in each hand, LIE! Hold on to your backstory and never ever let the cat out of the bag because there is nothing more gratifying than pulling off a great big lie. The bag should have air holes if that’s really where you put your cats, by the way. Nothing helps you slumber more sweetly than the contented knowledge that you have successfully broken an important rule and driven someone mad with your incessant tall tales. It’s the true joy of a fib gone well. Every time your little feline screeches you awake in the morning and reminds you that modern walls are thin, you will smile smugly to yourself and take comfort in knowing you’ve protected your secret as you pat your kitty on the head until it tires of your affection and swats a gash into your arm that prickles slightly with blood.