Hey internet. There’s no Manuscript Mondays today. It’s been a weird one over here at hnw cassandra.
He’s a she.
And she’s pregnant.
My fat man cat is pregnant.
Technically, my fat man cat is a hermaphrodite and he’s pregnant.
Don’t even act like you can’t believe I didn’t figured that one out on my own. How much time have you spent poking around a cat’s sex bits?
That’s what I thought.
Which of course explains the mood swings, the teeth loss, the weird appetite, and the peeing.
I live next to a house that used to belong to a woman with a whole bunch of cats who passed away in the fall, and since she vacated the premise, Marm has been sneaking over there a whole lot. She used to take care of strays and I guess they are still hanging around the property and whatnot. So I guess our cat met a few friends over there.
Obviously, the moral of the story here is to not take your animals to a vet that is a) run by vet students who b) can’t tell WHETHER A CAT IS MALE OR FEMALE OR BOTH.
But yeah. Apparently he’s really, really pregnant.
That’s a thing.
UPDATE- APRIL FOOLS!
I realized I’ve written posts about a lot of the “worsts”. Worst dates, worser worst dates, terrible birthdays, my asshole cat being a douche, all that jazz. Today I’m going to shake it up and give you a best. Or, if not a best, at least a very, very good.
It was my friend’s 24 on Friday, and we had one of the Best Nights Ever.
Let’s call him Eric Bana.
Eric Bana lives in an apartment in a massage school that used to be a mental hospital. It’s very castle-y looking, with all these crazy spires and towers and whatnot, and it smells like shea butter and eucalyptus.I’d never been there before, so I got pretty lost driving out to this place. It’s out on a hill on a pretty hard-to-find road. It’s totally the coolest apartment I’ve ever been to, is what I’m saying.
I get there and Eric Bana promptly announces that we’re going to do a Disney song power hour with Genny Cream. I’d never done a power hour before, so this was a new and exciting thing for me. It also turns out that I am a disturbingly spot on jukebox for Disney lyrics. Eric Bana and I absolutely sang around to almost every song. It was pretty beautiful. The gang had a very touching moment to “I Will Show You the World”.
So 60 shots of Genny later (61 because I did I double shot to The Aristocats because that movie is my JAM) someone decides that we needed to go up to the roof. Elaboration- the boys wanted to pee off of the roof, because they were drunk and boys are gross and have a weird desire to pee on everything. So we go up this crazy spiral staircase thing with all these creepy little empty side rooms that were once used for mental hospital purposes and I’m starting to feel like I’m on Ghost Adventures or some shit. Eric Bana’s good friend and roommate Ryan Gosling is leading this tour and he keeps pointing out the window and telling me about parts of the building he has climbed up and peed on, like he’s an OCD squirrel with the bladder of a hyperactive French Bulldog.
Eventually we get to the top of the building and go out on the highest tower, where there’s a plane landing light and all sorts of cool weather gadgets, and we are easily 6 stories up, and Ryan Gosling climbs out onto this skinny little ledge outside the barrier and has a wee, and all the boys agree this this is an optimal peeing spot, because, I reiterate, boys are gross.
Then we went back downstairs and Eric Bana and I had a fake lightsaber fight and we all went downtown and spoke in really badly affected British accents for like an hour and drank Jameo-ginger and everything was wonderful forever.
Of course the next morning I was terribly hungover and The Cat decided to creep under my bed and meow really loudly for an HOUR while power farting, and I really just wanted to be miserable and hide under the covers but the room smelled like a dung beetle’s family reunion.
I hate that cat.
I am single.
(I do not offer this tidbit of information as a pro or a con, merely as an incontestable fact.)
As a consequence of my singularity, I do not have a smoodley-poo of my very own to snoogly-woogly this Valentine’s day, so I anticipate that today will be unspectacular. I do not, however, have an amazing spectrum of Valentine’s days to live up to. Of the four that were worth remembering, I was broken up with, went on a Anti-date with a platonic man friend (who turned out to be not-so-platonic after all), was very, very sick and had to cancel my fancy dinner, and had margaritas and chips with my (ex) boyfriend. Although I was sent a very nice dozen of roses once from a long-distance friend once.
To those few who got a little upset that one of my ex-boyfriends broke up with me on Valentine’s day, I should tell you a few things. First of all, it was my freshman year of high school. Secondly, we dated from January 20th, 8:32pm, 2008, to February 14th, 11:59pm, 2008, which is such a short time period it may not even count. Thirdly, I looked like this:
God I love this photo so much. I look like Mufasa’s preppy Chola cousin pre-makeup. Note the absolute sincerity of my gaze. I believed in this look.
But I digress.
In light of my recent attempt to befriend my cat, I decided to extend the olive branch to Marmaduke in the form of an invitation. Specifically, the invitation to be my Valentine. I figured since I’d be spending the night solo, Marm and I could catch up on some quality kitty time.
As if he could sense that I was looking for him, the Cat has been curiously MIA this week. Perhaps because I haven’t been in the office as much. Perhaps he has a secret lair somewhere where he’s plotting the hostile takeover of my room. I don’t know or particularly care. As far as I know, the cat food is still disappearing from the bowl, which means he’s still alive. Probably.
I finally caught him lurking outside my door on Tuesday. He saw me and started making a noise that I imagine was a re-enactment of the gurgling dying breath of the last dinosaur on Earth. To shut him up I lifted him up to my bed. I think he stopped whining out of pure shock, since the last time I let him on my bed was the middle of the summer when he peed on it. Twice.
I explained to the cat that this was my Valentine’s gift to him and that his Valentine’s gift to me would be to not pee on my things. He made this face.
He did not pee on my bed (yet). Tada.
That’s about it. In retrospect, I really didn’t know what I thought was going to happen. Maybe that the sun would come out and unicorns would appear from the ground like daisies and everything would be perfect forever.
PS- I really did try to take a more attractive picture of Marm… but that’s kind of just how his face looks.
I promised myself I wouldn’t write another cat post until at least Thursday, but I was sitting here in the office trying to think of what to write and Marmaduke came in and made a really smelly deposit in the litter box (we put a litter box in the office so that he would stop peeing in my room. He didn’t.). Going to the bathroom whenever I sit down at the desk seems to be his new favorite activity after staring at me when I sleep and plotting my demise.
Anyways, he came in and had a poo, and I had to clean it up and the dusty litter settlement was flying up everywhere and got all over and then I was washing my face off because it was all on my glasses and all I could think about was that the memory of my litter-face was absolutely going to ruin the next experience of romance face-touching I had. Even though, let’s be honest, given my impressive and persistent state of singledom these past many months, a romantic face-touching encounter is not likely to occur soon. Yet I digress.
So now I’m sitting here trying to write or at least start my blog post for tomorrow and all I can think about it my smelly-poo-life-ruining-Prozac-taking asshole of a cat and how much I wish that my parents had gotten me a goldfish when I (according to them) asked for a cat those many years ago, because goldfish are too stupid be be depressed and I never would have had to shovel its dirty poo because they only live for about 2 days anyways.
In an effort to start liking my cat (which is not going well especially after tonight’s litter face incident), I decided to start trying to play with the thing. However, it’s been somewhat rough going because a) he’s clinically depressed and hates everything and b) he’s never really been into “playing” beyond hitting my dogs in the face and trying to suffocate various family members under his fat lumpy ass. However, I have succeeded in invented a game for cats which Marm and I both enjoy.
Well, I enjoy playing it, at any rate. Close enough.
The game is called Phantom Cat.
You will need-
– A cat.
– A hiding place.
– A terrible sense of humor.
The cat always loses.
1. Wait until your cat is sleeping or resting peacefully.
2. Hide nearby. Make sure he doesn’t see you hiding. This can be as simple as getting up on the table in the dining room or as complicated as painting yourself in the same pattern as your wallpaper.
3. Meow loudly until he wakes up. Continue to meow as he wakes up and starts to look around for the “phantom cat”.
4. When he figures it out, tell him it was the dog.
Serves you right, poo cat.
So one of my New Year’s resolutions was to fall back in love with my cat, Marmaduke. I have been trying really hard to do this. It is an uphill battle. It does not help that my parents don’t like him either and that he’s quite possibly a sociopath.
I’ve taken to calling him Meowmix because friends give each other nicknames and I thought I would try to encourage a light, familiar sort of relationship. He doesn’t respond to it, but then again, he doesn’t respond to his actual name either.
We had a positive interaction the other day I thought I might share. I gave him a piece of steak and scratched him behind the ears and he quite tenderly sunk his claws into my leg and tried to chew my hand off. I mean, he did lose all of his teeth somehow (I’m still a little clueless on that front) so it was more of a furious gumming. But there was almost a glint of love in his cold, calculating, hate filled gaze.
I even put a little extra food in his bowl the other day and he thanked me by drooling into my sneakers. I though he might be hungry because he was stealing dog food pellets out of Pepper’s dish, but later I found it on the floor across the room, so I think Marm was just trying to make it slightly less convenient for my pup to eat dinner.
My new year’s resolution this year is to stop hating my cat. This may sound overdramatic, but let me assure you, there is no love lost between me and good ole Marm.
We picked Marmaduke out at the SPCA during my freshman year of high-school. My parents tell me that I was begging them to let me get a cat at this stage of my life. I do not remember this and will staunchly and forever refute the validity of this claim. I do remember that Marm was in one of those single occupancy cells that they reserve for “troubled animals” and that the SPCA volunteers told us that he was a mouser of uncertain age, a tabby of some sort who was fully mature and could handle dogs. Unfortunately, only one of those statements ended up being true.
Our faithful golden retriever, Mackintosh, was seven or eight when we brought the cat home, and everyone held their breath when the two were introduced. Happily, they hit it off right away, and given that Mack was about as courageous as a bag of lettuce and Marmaduke was and remains completely apathetic about everything, the two somewhat complemented each other. They were fast friends for the next five years, until Mackintosh passed away in the summer of 2010.
That’s when the cat lost his shit.
There are people out there who would tell you that animals don’t grieve. Those people are wrong. Marmaduke had always been a somewhat surly, sedentary, snarky sort of fellow, prone to fighting with the neighbour’s cats and destroying our furniture, but after Mack peacefully passed away of old age on the floor of my bedroom, Marm’s temperament went south. He actively started picking fights with our two new puppies, Patti Mayonnaise and Dr. Pepper. He lost most of the teeth in his mouth one day, lord knows how. He began kicking the litter out of his clean litter box and going to the bathroom on the floor.
The worst part? I swear to you on my gigantic collection of nail polish that Marm thinks I had something to do with Mack’s death, because he has been systematically searching out my things and PEEING ON THEM to the extent that the door to my room is now closed at all times. This cat, who was never my best bud but who once deigned to sit on my lap and allowed me to scratch behind his ears, suddenly thinks that he’s the Dalek to my Doctor and everything I hold dear must be exterminated.
I realize I may seem like a psychotic cat abuser or crazy sociopath or something, but I have no idea how to enjoy even being in the presence of this creature any more. I am not stingy on the cat food he likes. I am not above slipping him a bit of tuna from the sushi plate. I even gave him an empty box for Christmas (he was nonplused). The cat remains hostile towards me and my things.
I need cat help, Internet. Any suggestions?