Originally Posted: 2004-04-28 20:27

The Further Adventures of Scrooge The Cat

My cat is still insane.

He is a he.

This was established after a couple months when his little balls dropped. His voice did not change but he did take to peeing on things now and then.

And you could tell this was unique pee reserved especially for the purposes of alerting everyone in my building that I have a cat because it smelled only slightly less strong as vinegar or gasoline or a chemical attack and took at least one large bottle of Febreeze to get rid of.

And you can still smell it whenever it rains.

He no longer pees on things.

Because I had his poor little balls removed.

I knew he wouldn’t like it, but I had no idea of what lengths he would go through to seek his revenge.

He likes to sleep on my chest, which sounds nice and kinda is, seeing how he purrs and the sound and warmth is comforting, but there is more.

He likes to smack my face at night.

This is so much more disturbing than it might sound.

Imagine yourself somewhere beautiful. It is green and calm, quiet and peaceful. Imagine yourself with the most beautiful human of your lustful imagination in what might be called a compromising situation. Imagine yourself flying high above the earth, light as a feather, free as soul, happy as a rich kid in a candy store.

Now imagine a vengeful cat beating you on either side of your face with the speed of a speed metal bass drum.

And of course you are too tired to seek retaliation. And he moves faster than thought, especially at such a late hour. So stupidly, repetitively, you fall back to sleep only to repeat the process an hour later.

I have to sleep with my basketball because it scares him. This is what I am reduced to. Like a Cheech and Chong skit I sleep with my fucking basketball.

Laugh, but it gets worse.

He likes to play mind games.

He knows I am susceptible. He knows I feel guilty about the whole testicle thing.

For months he sat in the windowsill yelling at all the birds and movement outside. His teeth would sometimes chatter like a crack-head with DTs. His little tail would flick back and forth with longing and agitation at being stuck behind a window or screen.

So I decided to let him out into the world.

We walked together down the stairs and to the front door of my building and I felt good about the kindness I was showing at letting him out. At setting him free to terrorize the rest of the neighborhood. At granting his little heart’s fondest wish.

He took exactly seven steps when a car passed and he leaped up to my waist and dug his claws into my flesh.

I walked, in some amount of pain, up three flights of stairs to my apartment with a cat stuck like a tumor to my waist. His tail twice its normal size. The fur on his little back straight as an arrow. His little nutless voice growling.

The fucker has no balls. And I am solely responsible.

He won’t admit that he was scared. He is far too proud for that.

He acts like it never happened.

All my pots and pans have cat poop on them.

This is why.

He figured out how to enter the cabinets under my sink. I have never seen him do it, nor do I have no idea how it is done, but I know it happens.

I know because there are at least two or three days out of the week when I can go to the bathroom when I get home without having to first persuade my cat not to join me.

These days, I have learned, my cat is stuck in my kitchen cabinets. You see, he can get in somehow, but has not figured out how to get out.

He knows he will be in trouble, so he won’t cry. He just poops.

I have to store my pots and pans in the dishwasher. Until the little fucker figures out how to get in there too.

He has delusions of grandeur. He will spot a moth on the ceiling and stalk it around the apartment for hours. Though the ceiling is ten feet high, he will make valiant leaps trying to get to the moth.

He gets about 3 ½ feet high before he performs a half somersault that would make an Olympic high diver jealous and lands with disappointment as if he fully expected that this time; it would work. And has no idea why it didn’t.

I have caller ID on my landline and to delete it I have to go through each number and push delete. My phone makes a small confirmatory beep each time to let me know that specific number has been erased.

My cat thinks it is talking to him. He will sit at full attention staring at the phone and answer each deleted number with a small and distinct meow.







I have no idea what the phone is telling him. But if I were slightly more paranoid, I would guess, “Keep pooping in the pots! It’s working! The Oppressor is weakening! Do not fear the orange sphere of Hate!”

I got him a small plethora of toys. If you don’t know what a plethora is, watch Three Amigos.

But his favorite toy is my toothbrush.

I now use my finger like I was still in college.

He is most affectionate after drinking from the toilet when his little head is still wet with toilet water.

Despite being male and without a girlfriend, I have learned to leave the goddamned seat down.

He is fascinated by my guitar and loves little more than to pull it off its stand and then run away.

I never play in tune anymore.

On the rare occasion that I have a woman over, my cat is a completely different animal.

He is kind and sweet and affectionate and pulls out all of his cutest moves and sounds.

He is on his best behavior. But it is not for me. It is vicious and clever sabotage.

While I am trying to be at my most cutest and entertaining, my fucking cat steals my thunder. He gets all the attention. I try to make a subtle move of intimacy and my goddamned cat is in her lap like lightning. Making her laugh.

I am consistently cock-blocked by a fucking nutless cat.

Now I am the “nice guy” with the cute cat and all of the sudden I more like a “brother” or “friend” than anyone you would want to let see you naked.

The little fucker knows I took his balls. And he will do everything in his power to assure I don’t get to use mine.

But when I get depressed or lonely, he makes me laugh.

He will try a new jump from one object to another and fail miserably.

He will get in a fight with my left shoe and lose.

He will run full-force, straight into the wall for no apparent reason.

I will fart and he will grab my arse as if it is unconnected to me.

He can be entertained for hours with a discarded bottle cap.

He will whine in the sweetest, most pathetic voice whenever I run the dryer.

He will kill spiders and make me proud. Their twitching legs get caught in his whiskers.

He will go to sleep on my speakers whenever I play Tom Waits or Bessie Smith.

He will run around in frenzy when I play At The Drive-In or V.O.D.

He will hold onto my leg sometimes at night like he is afraid I will get away.

He will attack my alarm clock with passion I only dream of at 6:30 in the morning.

And he likes it when I get home. Because he misses me.

I think I might hate him.

But he is still my friend.

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