Iam, unequivocally and absolutely, a cat person. It’s not so much that I don’t like dogs. It’s just that I like cats far more. You know, in that way.
Yes, I’m sexually attracted to cats.
OK, not really. But I figure I should have your attention now. After all, it’s not every day someone admits that their sexual preference is cats.
I have three male cats. One is my girlfriend’s cat, Slayer. He is in my possession for the time being – I am his foster father. The other two are my cats, Deek and Hobbes. Their mother was a great lady, the queen of all ghetto North Philly strays, Tiki. I had to give her up due to her knack for getting knocked up, but her new owner kept me posted. She had seven kittens and is doing well, for those of you who care (and I know you all do).
The cats, or “kiddiots” as I lovingly refer to them, have some quirks to them. Each has his own distinct personality, which would read fairly awkwardly for a feline personal ad. For example, Deek’s would read:
“My name is Deek. I enjoy eating condoms and anything found in garbage cans. Sometimes, when people are having sex, I like to involve myself in the action. When I’m bored, I sit in boxes and lick my scrotal region. My favorite hobby is chasing my tail until I get too dizzy to stand. I have two brothers: Hobbes, a slightly obese hermit and Slayer, a morbidly obese mama’s boy. Contact me.”
So yeah, to put it bluntly, they’re weird cats. And I’m weird for writing a personal ad about them.
Thus, it was with much dismay that I took them to get neutered today. I felt bad, although I felt like there could be some comedic possibilities.
Plus, they had started spraying and I wanted to nip that in the bud (yes – pun intended).
If you’ve never smelled a cat spray, imagine having your nostrils urinated in, then pinched shut for five minutes so the scent goes straight to your head.
Yep. It’s that bad.
My girlfriend, Dina, came up this weekend
to help me out with the task. We were pretty miserable when we woke up at 7:30 a.m. to bring the kiddiots to the vet, but then I thought of their plight. They woke up at 7:30 a.m. as well. But I was returning home with my testes. As for Slayer, Hobbes and Deek? They would be testes-free.
We dropped them off and went home, deciding to sleep the rest of the afternoon. We went to pick up the dudes at 4 p.m., and the vet was very polite.
She told us how she dated a metal head in college, and pushed him to name his cat Slayer, but to no avail. We had named our cat Slayer, and she was proud of us. She warned us that the cats would be loopy when we took them home, but we didn’t expect what happened.
The cats were too dizzy to even stand, let alone eat. These three, whose running
and jumping and eating and general mayhem-causing were usually ceaseless, couldn’t even open their eyes. I loved it.
They crashed into everything and I felt bad laughing, but I did. So did Dina. It was absolutely hysterical. Sure, these cats were more drugged up than any hasbeen celebrity and had one testicle less than John Kruk, but I didn’t feel bad for them.
I felt glad for myself, more than anything.
I felt glad that I would get some sleep finally, and that I wouldn’t have to pull a cat out of the garbage or out from the
toilet.
It’s Friday night, and I haven’t heard a peep out of them. I’m not sure if they’re loving the drugs or ruing their eunuch-hood, but I’m getting slightly freaked out at this point.
It’s like hearing Michael Irving speak – you’re not quite sure what’s going on, but you know something isn’t right.
So wish them luck. And wish me luck as well – because during the next week, I have to keep three highly medicated cats from fighting and licking their emasculated crotches.
Mike Gleeson can be reached at mike.gleeson@temple.edu.
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