This little "bundle of joy" was dropped in my lap just prior to last Thanksgiving. Will this be one of those Hallmark Ch. made for TV movies about
the "feisty little cat with the heart of gold that warmed a seriously ill man's icy cold soul blah blah blah"... Not freaken hardly. In fact, he is
quite the little a-hole.
Was I sick at the time? Yes. I am much better now (much to the chagrin of a few ex-wives, a few ex-girlfriends, and that mime I punched in France 20+
Anyway, the little furball was found by a friend, sick and abandoned. My wife has worked with animals for years as a trainer and vet-tech, so he
dropped the little drowned rat looking thing on us. Wonderful. Unemployed. Sick. Barely making ends meet. All I see is a vet bill.
Then I see his sad frightened little eyes...
That was all I could think of. So sad, so alone. So, we discussed his fate, and agreed that we could at least give the poor little guy a chance. He
was malnourished, mistreated, dehydrated and worst of all, had a respiratory infection. He is a Persian mix, and his fur was matted, damp and gross.
My wife figured him for about 8-10 weeks old. We live quite close to the "Great White North, Eh!", so it was very cold outside... which actually may
have helped him... no fleas and ticks to prey on him... but he was very sick.
He was insanely friendly from the moment we decided to keep him. Because of his congestion, he couldn't really purr without sounding (or smelling)
like he was gargling rotted fish guts... but he tried anyway. Constantly. With his mouth half open expelling that fetid vileness right up my nose.
Blech. All he wanted to do was to be held. All I wanted was clean air again.
I named him Frumious Bandersnatch (look it up, it's a literary reference)... it just seemed to suit him. Tufts on his ears, fanged, mouth half-open,
gurgling... exactly how I would picture one... in miniature form. We call him Bander.
My wife attended to his issues... she worked through his infection by treating him with steam and mint oil... brushed out his mattes and tangles...
started him on a special (and expensive) diet... and he kept hanging in there. She tended to his every need, and he appeared to be this grateful
kitten, purring (and gurgling), sweet and affectionate...
The first few weeks that we had him, he and I spent a lot of time together... being sick. He'd breathe on my face, I'd toss him on the floor. I
tried to keep him at least 4 feet away from my face (sick cat breath is nasty, I cannot stress that enough), he'd try to curl up on my head... but as
soon as my wife entered the room, he was on her like a rat on a cheeto... she would let him sleep on her head and he looked so happy...
Then it all changed.
I am not sure exactly which day Bander fell to the dark side. Historians will surely debate the exact date for years... and I am sure to be blamed for
Mea culpa... a little bit anyway... (there may or may not have been some catnip in the toys I gave him, and I may or may not have watched "The Wall"
with him, just sayin... )
Like most "only semi-corporeal life-forms" (OSCLFs), he healed and rebounded quite quickly. When he did, a new set of software instructions had
kicked in. Bander had a new reality with new rules. He suddenly started looking on me as a demi-god... and my wife as something annoying only sent
here to feed him. He had become very arrogant, very quickly. He would strut around, tail straight up in the air, flicking the tip of it like he was
flipping off everyone in sight... as he was following me around from room to room. He was also getting obnoxious. At 3 AM when he decided he wanted
out of the bedroom, he would go up to the door and proceed to POUND
on it until I would so kindly wake up and let his fuzzy little spoiled a$$
out. Then, an hour later POUND
on the door again until I would be so kind as to wake up to let his about to be choke-slammed self back in to
He started going "Captain Insane-O" on our other two cats... not bad enough to warrant a good "shock collar on the kitty in the toilet with the lid
down", but just enough to always get his way. First in the food bowl at feeding time. He would fling their poops out of "his" litter box by
frantically trying to bury the evidence that they exist... and, as much as he swooned over me, if I tried to pet the other cats, he'd give me a good
long stink-eye before he'd strut off, flipping me off with his tail.
He was steadfast in his devotion toward me, hated the rest of the world, and I thought it was absolutely hilarious!
I don't care for cats,
never have. I don't hate them, I just can't eat a whole one. Here is this arrogant little tool of a cat, and he has adopted me. Absolute proof that
cat people are as bat crap crazy as Rosie O'Donnell at an all you can eat bbq pork and fallen soul buffet. So I had his balls cut off.
Before you invoke the dark forces of PETA, let me explain. We had planned to have him fixed from the moment we got him, but as sick as he was, we had
to wait. Then puberty got there first. He went from comic little arrogant goofball to full blown ego driven urine squirt machine/petmeloveme Jeckyl
and Hyde. We had to keep him crated for two days until his appointment; he tried pi$$ing on me every time I went near him... and would angrily slap at
the walls of the crate with his tail... thwap, thwap, thwap... then would sadly meow to try to draw me in closer...
We got him back from the vet, and I get the feeling that I am watching "A Clockwork Orange" play out in front of me. He has seemed a bit more
normal, but normal is a very relative term... and he is a bizarre cat. I seriously think being out in the cold wet weather as a kitten messed him up
country good. Well, to add insult to injury, my wife shaved him.
And I watched.
Minds out of the gutters... he never started growing in an adult coat, and his kitten coat was starting to shed, and matte... so, my wife gave him a
lion cut. Most pathetic, freaky thing I have ever seen. Like a Dr. Seuss character come to life. It is still cold here, so... I put a sweater on him.
He didn't dig it so much at first (he walked around like he was trying to drag his recently removed tool box on the ground behind him), but strangely
now he loves it. To make it worse, my wife glues little red caps on his nails. Stripper red. (They are awesome actually... keeps them from scratching
crap up and you don't have to de-claw them) But stripper red.
He looks like "Rocky Horror Picture Show as performed by the Children's Television Workshop".
They also replaced his testicles with a gas gland. He farts and "Superfund Sites" are created. Children cry. Dogs howl. Fish scream. Yes, they are
just that bad
... and he smiles
when he does it. He is clumsy, has no co-ordination, is a catnip addict and likes nothing more than
sleeping in my lap. And farting. Sometimes vociferously so...
Now some could interpret all of this as a metaphor of the human condition... the testicles as the ego and their removal as being for the good of the
collective... or the struggle of the worker against the man, only to have his manhood removed by the HMOs... whatever. Smoke your tea leaves. Do your
yoga. Eat yogurt. Whatever.
When our sweater wearing cat masters take over, remember... they like me...