You know what I like? I like quiet. I like when I walk across the room and nothing attacks my feet, leaving them bloody. I also truly enjoy NOT stepping in vomit that is basically comprised of unchewed food. Oh! And you know what else is cool? Not seeing poop stuck to the ass of your cat.
When Thor and I finally split up and I moved into my own place some asshole recommended that I buy a cat. And since I was vulnerable, weak, and feared loneliness, I considered it. Then one night, as I was leaving school I noticed a sign on the bulletin board, “Cat! Free to a good home,” with a number. So, like a total idiot, I called. (This was back when I believed in signs.) This led to one of the most unnerving experiences I have ever had, which in turn taught me a valuable lesson. Never, and I mean NEVER go to a stranger’s home alone without some sort of weapon on you.
We had agreed that I would be there at 11 am and so at 11:03, I knocked on their door. I had lost my way once on the way there since I had never actually been to the ghetto here before, thus making me just a teensy weensy bit late. A couple, looking (in retrospect) like they were totally wacked out on meth answered the door, and for the next 20 minutes I was made to watch the guy basically let the cat attack him. I am not kidding when I say that his hand was bloody. BLOODY. Basically he trained his kitten to be a killer. A fearless, ruthless killer. And I didn’t really want to live with a fearless killer, but I also couldn’t not take her. They were so intense about it that I really had to commit to taking her. In fact, they wanted to give her to me that day, but I needed to get a few cat-related things, so I arranged to pick her up the following day at an agreed-upon time. The guy looked at me all twitchy-like and said,
“I want you to know that we both just heard you say you would be here at 10am.”
“Right. 10 am.” I replied.
“That is 10 am missy, not 10:10.”
“Right. 10 am.”
“Because today you told us you would be here at 11am and you were late.”
(Oh Jesus, I hope that they never had children!)
The guy was beyond creepy and that evening at one of my classes I told one of my classmates about my experience and she . . . well, basically she told me I was an idiot, and then she made me take her with me the next day. And she brought a knife. When we went to pick up the cat, those lunatics actually put her in a plastic grocery bag and handed her to me. I didn’t know much at the time about pet ownership but something told me that you really should never put a living creature in a plastic bag.
Thus began a life of cat ownership. Turns out I don’t really like cats. Or fish. Or birds. Or dogs. (Any person that can love an animal that goes into the garbage with its mouth, takes out a used maxi pad and then eats it is really quite questionable, if you ask me.) Basically, I don’t really like animals. I told a friend this the other night and she was all, “Oh, come on. How can you not like animals?” And I just stood my ground, people, and I said, “because they suck.” If you like animals, don’t give me any crap. This isn’t about you. And thank goodness that someone likes pets otherwise it would be like living in India, which I’ve been to, and the whole animal situation is out of control.
The funny thing is that Roo, the cat that began this story, is dead. Well, that came out wrong. It isn’t funny that she is dead. Don’t go calling animal control on me or anything. I actually shed some tears when she died because although she remained, for 13 straight years, a total bitch, she was my bitch and I loved her. She was dainty and clean, she sucked on her tail for years because she was weaned too early, she hid for, like, 22 hours a day, and she was really soft. Plus, she hated my next cat, which for some reason was a quality I always respected.
Theo. Oh, Theo. I thought that Roo was lonely. Here is your public service message, people. Cats don’t get lonely. If you think that your cat has the ho-hum-diddley-dums, it doesn’t. It is just being a fucking cat. Don’t go thinking that adding another cat to the mix will be the solution, because I am here to tell you, it isn’t. Before I knew this valuable information, I went to the Humane Society. Say what you will about me, I do have a heart, and it is virtually impossible to walk into the Humane Society and leave without owning a new pet. I was determined to get another cat—a playmate for the psychopath, Roo—but on that day, the animals at the Humane Society were all sick with a horrible stomach parasite. All of them that is, except Theo. So, since I am incapable of deciding to do something and then not do it, I had to buy Theo.
It turns out that the small, fluffy little kitten that I bought that day would turn into a 30-pound (Call Ellen! She loves fat cats!), 6 toed, long haired, dander-sporting cat. Roo hated him, and in true bitch fashion, never relented. When Theo was a kitten, he was so small that he would hold on to my roommate’s leg as she did her Jane Fonda video workout, going up and down with each leg lift. He used to crawl up onto my head and nibble on my forehead, which at the time seemed cute, but now just seems creepy. Before I brought him home, he went in to get neutered—which they do “in house” at the Humane Society. Unfortunately for Theo, they had run out of blue index cards, which is their highly sophisticated way of labeling gender, so they wrote BOY in big letters, on a pink index card. In the end when he went in for his surgery they first tried to (PINK CARD!) take out his ovaries and when they didn’t find any, they chopped off his family jewels. What misery! He was both spayed and neutered! Poor guy.
Over the years, he has proven to be a fierce competitor. Once, when he was still an outdoor cat he came home totally fucked up. And I mean, like, totally. Fucked. Up. The stray in our neighborhood showed no mercy and not only gave him a huge cut on his leg but, he removed a part of his ear and sliced both of Theo’s eyelids. It was like he was a professional hit man (er, hit cat?). Theo rebounded and decided to retire.
Since he is so nasty, I take him to get groomed every other month or so. Yes, he gets bathed, clipped and shaved. And he freaking loves it. Spa day for Theo! I stayed and watched once, because I couldn’t quite believe that he just lay down and took it but I swear to God he just lays down and takes it. I think I saw him drool. He’s come a looong way from being attacked by alley cats.
Now he lives indoors, unless I finally make good on my threat to hand him over to the bobcat that lives in our current neighborhood. The poor bastard looks hungry. The bobcat, not Theo. Theo looks like Ricki Lake circa 1993. He is popular with my friends, and that’s because—of all the crazy things—he loves to be spanked. And spanked hard. If he had a car, he would drive over to the local erotica shop and buy a leather whip, I shit you not. When people come over (since I won’t spank him anymore) he literally puts his ass in the air, and his head on the ground and waits to be punished. I am relieved he can’t talk. because I have a feeling it would go something like, “I’ve been a bad boy. I need to be spanked. Harder. HARDER. HARDER!!!!!”. Perv.
He’s alright with kids, so I will keep him until he bites it. Well, actually, the other day he bit a little girl that tried to smack him, but he didn’t draw blood, so I gave him a pass. That said, the other night I walked by him to get my cup of water and he reached out, claws open, and sliced the top of my foot open. Little bastard. Maybe I will feed him to the bobcat after all.
Tonight, the boys were running around naked, sort of like they were on speed, and Luca ran past Theo and the bastard reached out and sliced Luca’s tiny little leg open. It’s like he knew I was writing this. Anyone want a cat?