Friday, January 9, 2009

Kitty Kitty Bang Bang: A Love Gone Awry

I promised to explain why I'm not a pet person. This is only one story. Someday I'll tell the story of Sarah the Almost Toothless Dog Who Still Managed to Maim When she Wasn't Lying There Like A Bearskin Rug. There are many stories about animals who come to the compound, but who do not stay...Anyway, this is my cat tale.

My husband’s not a big believer in Hallmark holidays. On one occasion, though, for reasons I’ll never understand, he thought he would get me a cat. There would be no sense in getting an already neutered, immunized and clawed indoor cat, or a brand new fluffy kitten, no. He wanted a cool manly cat that would go out tomcattin’ and come back in to play with a ball of yarn. He unloaded a third-hand alley-cat from our neighbors as a makeshift Valentine’s Day gift thinking I would be thrilled.

I should have sensed problems when an eleven year-old girl had no problem giving her kitty the kiss-off. She’d named him Misty, due to his foggy grey color. In a misguided effort to restore his dignity I renamed him Mister. When I saw his colossal testicles, though, he became Mr. Meatballs.

Mr. Meatballs was handsome and he was pretty chill in the beginning. In the two months he lived with us, however, I came to realize just how into animals I’m not. Priority number one should have been to remove his meatballs pronto. Part of the problem was the way those mega nuts made him desperate to leave the house. Another issue was that his piss stunk so bad he’d wake us up out of a dead sleep just trying to take a midnight leak.

Unsurprisingly, Mr. Meatballs’ friends were pricks. His posse frequently kicked his ass. We’d resolve to not let him go outside, only to come back in scratched and torn. Yet despite the fact that his friends assaulted him nightly, he had to have it, he had to get outside. And the way the posse waited on the porch, staring into our picture window until we let him out disturbed me. Yes, we were remiss in not making a eunuch out of him.

Perhaps most disgusting were the crusty lesions that suddenly appeared on his body. It was to the point that I wouldn’t touch him with a stick. When he began sneezing nasty cat snot all over the picture window, I realized the love affair was just about over. He sneezed so frequently one day that the window looked like a peep-show booth for Smurfs. I Googled his symptoms; according to the great oracle, he seemed to have a raging case of feline herpes. I was agog to discover cats can take Valtrex. Does Blue Cross cover that? I imagine not. I had just about had it with this filthy man-whore of a cat.

One night we heard him yowling outside the back door. I let him in and he slinked past me, racing toward his food. I’d never seen him so voracious. As I looked down at him in disgust that breached borderline, I couldn’t help wondering what he’d been up to. As he noisily inhaled his food I noticed he had some kind of … substance smeared all over his charcoal coat. I backed away and decided: Mr. Meatballs had to go.

After taking him to the no-kill shelter, part of me felt like I’d let Meats down. Maybe I hadn’t given him a fair shake, but nothing was going to dissuade me from sending him packing. That was the best I could do for the poor guy. I didn’t want to take him to the vet and cure his herpes and snip his balls. I wanted out. I needed a clean break, and though I felt bad, I had faith. Mr. Meatballs was handsome. He had personality. Someone would surely see him and say, “I want that kitty right there!” He wasn’t going to get gassed, at least. I wished Mr. Meatballs good luck and godspeed.

Months later I was enormously pregnant, walking around the neighborhood. I was as sober as I had ever been since about age fourteen years old and I moved slower than shagging geriatrics. I had all but forgotten about Mr. Meatballs, but as I lumbered downhill, I heard a horrible sound and looked into a yard. I saw a cat getting reamed but good. Then I recognized one of Meatball’s old cronies. He was banging out on a skinny white cat I’d seen around the neighborhood. A black and white sat inches away watching intently, tail switching. Another stalked circles around the copulating, yowling mess. He was obviously next in line in the train. Thoroughly scandalized, I grabbed my phone and attempted to take a picture but my cell-phone technology simply wasn’t up to the task.

Suddenly, I remembered Mr. Meatballs and the viscous streaks on his coat that night he came barreling in and devoured his food like a lion eating gazelle guts. At that moment, any residual guilt I’d felt for giving up on Meats disappeared into the ether. That fucking scumball had the spooge of how many cats all over his coat and had the nerve to come back into my house without having the courtesy to so much as clean himself first.

Fuck that cat. Fuck them all. Ever since I saw that feline gang-bang, I vowed to never have another cat again, not even a prissy indoor cat. I always thought I was a cat person. They don’t sniff ass, they don’t slobber like dogs. I always thought of them as independent and mysterious animals. I’m officially over my fascination and no longer have any interest in creatures that do all their misdeeds on four legs instead of two.

6 comments:

Jude said...

Phew!!! Thank God you passed out of that phase...remember the Mantra..if you can't eat them or wear them...you don't need them!!!

wayofthechosen said...

I'm a dog person, I like to have a creature that is loyal as long as they know who's boss. I like the fact that if you leave for 10 minutes and come home they greet you like you've been gone for 10 days.

Nora said...

I guess. The older I get, the less interested I am in investing emotional energy to something that isn't a person. I guess I'm just lazy like that, though.

Mike said...

I'm going to harden my heart. I'm going to swallow my tears. I'm going to turn ...and...leave you here...in this animal prison!! lol

As I said before, I hate cats, even that fat, lasagna eating, yellow bastard Garfield.

(In my best Stephen A. Smith) Howevah, it sounds like you blamed your cat for stuff that is beyond his control. The kind of behavior you described is normal for male cats that aren't neutered. Its cool though, some folks just don't care for animals. Lol, I once had an argument with a friend who I thought cared too much for animals. She lets her dogs sleep in the same bed with her and hubby. To me that is crazy.

Despite that, however, I have to agree with my esteemed colleague River and David Duchovny when I say that dogs indeed rule!

Jenn D. said...

I wish my cat would go out and get laid. I had him neutered at a very young age. He's such a needy little fucker, now. He cries so loud, all night long, that I have to lock him in the basement so he doesn't wake up the kids.

But I love him anyway.

Nora said...

Hot Carl: I don't blame Meats for being gross. I think not fixing him was my passive-aggressive solution to eliminating my unwanted Valentine's Day "gift". If I'd fixed him up all nice, my old man would've probably made noise about all the money I spent on the cat only to get rid of him.

Jenn D: you have always loved your kitty cats. 'Member when Dali pissed all over my jacket? That fucker.