Squiggy, Smoky,
Stella (back), Max (front).
That picture was taken in 2005; none of the dogs is with us
anymore. They’re all sitting nicely because I yelled at my kids to sit down and
be quiet; they (the dogs) weren’t the brightest bunch. This post is about what
Smoky conjured up from beyond the grave.
My daughter’s 12th birthday party happened a few
weeks after Smoky died, in early 2012. After the kids were gone and the cleanup
was complete, my then wife and I stepped outside for a smoke. While outside, we
heard cat-like noises but thought nothing of it. A while later we went out for
another smoke and heard more cat-like noises. This time we investigated.
Peering over the neighbour’s fence (creepy senior lady,
creepy house, Hansel and Gretel witch vibes) I spotted a kitten that seemed to
be in some kind of distress. It wasn’t super-tiny, but it wasn’t big.
I should pause here to mention that my ex and I are allergic
to cats, and I can’t stand the little shits. Anyway …
After a few attempts I was able to snag the little beast as it
jumped up towards me. The thing didn’t seem injured, wasn’t clawing and scratching,
and just seemed scared. So we dumped it in the sunroom and my wife phoned a
friend who has cats to ask what we should do with it (I was thinking we should
release it back into the wild on the neighbour’s side of the fence). Had the
vet been open I would have unloaded the problem toot-de-sweet. But no, it seems
we were gonna keep the cat overnight.
Kitty critter is gonna spend the night in the laundry room
where it can’t destroy the house or get eaten by the dogs. A pet crate with a
blanket for sleeping, a shoebox with sand for a poopatorium, and a bowl of
water and we figure all is set. Next step (why I agreed is fucking beyond me)
was to introduce the cat to the dogs.
In my head I’m thinking the dogs are gonna get all evil on
the cat’s ass or at the very least Max would hump the shit out of it; Max being
the only one with a doggy dong. But no. That triumvirate of traitorous turds
gets all friendly with the cat. Assholes!
I should point out that had the dogs shown any aggression towards
the cat, I would have protected it because it’s the right thing to do. Even for
cats.
So, we shut the door and bugger off to bed. I should mention
that my breathing is already becoming slightly laboured, and I am now the only
one with a scintilla of sanity who wants to get rid of the damn cat. Wife, kids,
dogs – all seem happy about the cat. JFC.
The night passes with only some minor yowling, which I
effectively ignore. In the morning my wife heads off to the vet with the cat.
In my delusion I’m thinking she’s gonna dump the cat and come home. Without the
cat. But no. She returns with the cat. Why!? This is wrong!
Turns out the cat is not chipped (get your pets chipped, FFS!)
and there are no tattoos or anything to identify who the cat belongs to. It’s a
girl cat, BTW. So now we have a cat. To this day I’m still pissed that the dogs
didn’t do the right thing.
The cat’s name was Lulu (short for Lucifer because devil
beast). And I’m on the hook to care for this thing until death (hers or mine) or
divorce because that’s what grown-ass, responsible adults do. It turned out
that divorce ended my era of responsibility. I am convinced that Smoky, as dead
as she was, orchestrated Lulu showing up.
There were four people living in the house back then, three
of whom loved Lulu. I was not one of them. Lulu could have glommed on to my
wife or either of my kids. Instead, because cats are evil trolls, she decides I’m
the one she wants to be with. I mean, she had to know I didn’t like her. Didn’t
she? I did feed her, water her, and scoop cat litter because I took on the responsibly
for her care. In fairness, the whole family did their part, so why me?
3 of the 4 laps that Lulu had available to her while we were
gathered watching TV would have welcomed her, but she chose the 1 lap that
wanted nothing to do with her. The 1 one lap that was in the expensive leather
recliner (I miss that chair). Up she’d hop, do a little kneading, then lay down
and snooze, all the while purring and distributing cat dander into my face.
If you don’t know, when cats knead, their little spikes
extend a bit from their paws. They penetrate clothing and stab whatever is
directly underneath the clothing. Sometimes what’s directly underneath the
clothing is a scrotum. Need I say more?
Cats! They stab you in the nuts, shed dander into your face,
chew your stuff (was kinda hoping for an outcome like the one in Christmas
Vacation – IYKYK), scratch your stuff, flounce on your counters, and generally
make life miserable. Okay, I was the only one in the house that was miserable.
Whatever.
My allergy to cats diminished significantly within a few
weeks of Lulu’s arrival. I did have to use one of those asthma puffer thingies,
though. My wife’s allergies almost vanished completely. Who knew this was
possible?
Before getting divorced, six more cats of varying provenance
entered the home during the next few years. Yes, I know, WTF? I’ll admit to
developing a reluctant affection for some of them (yes, including Lulu) and I always made sure they
were healthy and safe. I went so far as to build a couple of enclosures for
them so they could get fresh air and enjoy sunshine. If it started raining,
however, I may not have been as quick as I could have been getting them back
inside because, you know, petty and vindictive.
Nope, don’t ever want another cat near me. But if I see one
that needs my help, I will help it. I learned that the body can adapt to cat
dander. I also learned that you don’t need to have cats or be a lady to earn
the honourific “crazy cat lady”.
Cats are seriously epic trolling assholes. I once went to my
friend Sam’s place to pick something up. He and his partner had cats. Cat came
right up and started rubbing against my legs. It knew! Fucker.
Be great today, be better tomorrow!
Cheers!
Connect with me on Bluesky: @chriswalker1964.bsky.social
