They say there’s more than one way to skin a cat. I would not advise attempting any of them. Cats can get vicious.

Although I’m not an expert on cat skinning, I am something of a cat aficionado. I probably can’t compete with the craziest of the cat ladies (I only own three books about cats), but I can hold my own in a feline trivia contest.

What I’ve realized recently, though, is that I hate cats.

I hate their cute little paws, their perky ears and the way they gracefully leap between pieces of furniture as if the floor was lava. I hate that they always land on their feet (unless they’re in space — then they get seven kinds of confused), and I hate the way they lie on their backs and look up into my soul as if by not petting their bellies immediately I am sending them into an inescapable spiral of depression. And most of all, I hate it when they rub up against my legs and emit coy meows. It’s unbearably adorable.

A few days ago, I was eating lunch with a friend when an awkward silence developed. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I blurted, “Have you ever wished death upon a cat?”

She looked at me blankly and took another bite of her bagel before answering.

“No.”

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, me neither.”

It was true. I hadn’t wished death upon a cat, but only because I thought there was a chance that if I made the wish, it would come true. What if I didn’t get any more wishes? And what if the cat still had eight more lives left?

It’s an undeniable fact that the world would be a better place without cats. Terabytes of digital storage would no longer be encumbered by kitty pics, millions of couches would be cat hair-free and those crazy cat ladies could stop working an extra job just to pay for all that cat food.

The adorable little demons have to be stopped. They are manipulative and evil and just so darn cute and cuddly. It’s all a sham. One minute you’re massaging its furry underside, the next it’s attacking you with the fury of a thousand suns, a maelstrom of claws, fangs and delightful “mew” sounds.

They are clearly messing with us. I don’t have any reason to believe my laptop’s keyboard is as comfortable as my cat makes it out to be. And there’s no way biting the end of my pen while I’m writing is actually entertaining for any reason other than that it annoys me.

What have cats ever done for you other than look cute? They don’t fetch your slippers or the newspaper for you; they make bad sentries, and they would rather bring dead rodents into the house than chase live ones out. Let’s get past the twee façade: Cats are nothing more than tiny parasites, slowly leeching away our life, liberty and property.

I once told my cat to stop being such a mooch because my house is not a welfare state. He walked away from me, purring.

Joe Fox is a junior studying online journalism and a columnist for The Post. Email him at jf250409@ohiou.edu.

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