Good-Bye, Kittehs

That's really all that can be said. Motley, the gray kitteh on the left, died earlier on Friday morning. I don't know if Peachigo, the calico on the right, is still hanging on or not, but she's been completely silent, immobile and listless all evening.

Now I'm wondering if the mother didn't abandon them just because they were sick and she wanted them away from the rest of the litter. My kids--specifically my daughter--and my wife are taking this pretty hard, and seeing them so upset has made my little heart break.

So, we are once again kitteh-less around here. It's been very sad today.

[EDIT]: Peachigo is officially dead now, too. I'm going to go cry myself to sleep now. Er, I mean, be rock solid and manly and bury my emotions.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!

Normally, on Thursdays, you'd show up here, prepared to be disgusted by some story involving inappropriate-for-polite company emissions of bodily fluids and/or eructations. However, since most of you won't be around today, I'm skipping the TMI Thursday thing. Besides, TMI Thursday was yesterday. On a Wednesday. What has this crazy world come to? TMI Thursdays on a Wednesday? Me willingly going to spend time with my in-laws? How long before the Whore of Babylon is sipping blood from a goblet perched atop a nine-headed dragon? Lilo, I'm looking at you.

Also, since it's a holiday, you'd come around this place expecting some sort of story about the first Thanksgiving, or a tale of the historic aspects of Thanksgiving and harvest feasts in western culture. Yeah, fuck that, it seems too much like work.

Instead, I'm going to tell you about Tuesday night.

Let me just say...if you want to kill your appetite for two days prior to Thanksgiving, you should clean out your refrigerator. Honest. Shall I tell you what I found in the refrigerator? Sure. Why not?

Did you know that chicken breast can go so far beyond rotten that it actually turns green? True story. Apparently tupperware isn't the magical storage box that we all assumed. I found a jar of pickles that had no pickles. Just brine. I found a tipped over jar of Maraschino cherries, all the juice dribbled out. It pooled in the back of the fridge. Preserved in the middle of the Maraschino juice tar pit was a bag of lettuce. Well, it once used to be lettuce. It was now a greenish-brown pulpy liquid trapped in plastic, sealed within a La Brea-esque cocoon of red goo. I also found a pack of carrots that were withered on one end, liquid on the other. Perhaps the crown jewel was a potato I had peeled for a stew, stuck in a ziploc bag, and set in the fridge for some other use. Did you know that a peeled potato will turn so brown that it appears to have regrown its skin? Oh, yeah, and it gets really fucking soft, too.

Now, if you'll pardon me, I have to go vomit.

Oh, much better. Reliving that was actually worse than when I stuck my hand in the back of the fridge, feeling around for anything that might be old or out of place or trapped in Maraschino tar pits.

Anyway, I'm hoping that you're having--or had--one hellaciously kickass Thanksgiving. Maybe you're reading this in the midst of a tryptophan-inspired torpor. Perhaps you're escaping in-laws (hi!). Perhaps you're not American at all and you have all of your wits about you and are here for entertainment purposes. If that's the case, I'm sorry to have ruined your afternoon.

My main hope is that your day is better than my Thanksgiving in 1989. I remember it because I was in the eighth grade. We had Thanksgiving at my aunt and uncle's house (Napoleon's mom and dad). You know that moment that everyone waits for on Thanksgiving day? When you've sat down, murmured some words of benediction to some distant deity, and the turkey is about to be sliced into? Well, when the tip of the knife entered that delicious brown breast, the skin crackled deliciously and then a gout of blood spurt into the air, the turkey gobbled, got up, and ran out the front door. That is to say, the turkey was a touch underdone.

I know this because the turkey on my plate was pink. And not the good kind of pink that you get when you smoke a turkey. This was more like raw poultry pink. Mmmmm...tasty!

I took one bite and the meat was cool and rubbery. The only time this is acceptable is when you're making out with your inflatable girlfriend. Suffice it to say, my appetite disappeared like I had just walked in on my mom blowing Hitler. Instantly, the gears in my mind started grinding, and--despite the fact that the Simpsons weren't really a thing yet--I wondered What Would Homer Simpson Do?

Easy: feed that shit to the dog.

Problem, though, is that even the dog doesn't like raw turkey.

Time to hide that shit in a napkin, excuse myself, and go to the bathroom. Oh hell. This isn't flushing down the toilet. Flush again. Maybe one more time. Wow, that water's getting high. Oh hell! Oho, this is what I get for likening my disgust to my mother performing oral pleasures on Hitler. Very sly, God. You really can see into the future. What to do now? Grab the plunger!!!

Ten minutes later, I return to the table and fill myself up on sides. Mmmm...green bean casserole, I love thee! Pile on some more dressing. Turkey? No thanks. These yams are too fucking delicious!

A few hours later, and my family and I were gathering our stuff up and getting ready to go. My grandfather lived next door to my aunt and uncle, and he came over to bid us adieu. He thumped his chest, and my mom said, "You know what's wrong, right?"

"Turkey," he belched.

Two months later, my grandfather died sitting in his recliner at home. We can't really prove it, but we do kid about how the uncooked turkey killed him. Nothing like a little raw, dark humor. Get it? Raw?

Anyway. Happy Thanksgiving, everybody. Be sure to cook the turkey until that little timer thing pops up. You never know when you might inadvertently have your toilet clogged by an unwitting fool take down a beloved patriarch.

Fluffy and the Rabbit

Damn, guys. I didn't mean to make everyone cry over my dead dog. Look, if it makes it any easier, she was an old dog. It was her time to go. She was well past the point where you could teach her new tricks. Plus, I'll admit it: she had picked up that old dog smell. You know what I'm talking about. The one where you pet her and then the smell of dog permeates your palms and sticks with you wherever you go. You can be driving back to school and be like "When did I leave molding, rotten socks under the heater?" and then you realize that the smell isn't gym socks gone wild, but rather it's the stink of the dog you patted on your way out the door still clinging tenaciously to your flesh. Yeah, that's what she had adopted. Nice dog. But she stunk.

Better? All those tears dried up? No? Fine.

Let me tell you about my cat. Everyone loves a little pussy story.

Oh, and by the way. I believe it was Adrienzgirl who said she liked me because I'm a dog person. Well, sorry, but I'm not. Don't get me wrong. I like dogs. I love dogs. In fact, here, let me give you another stupid dog story.

I was walking out to my car a few months back in the early spring when I heard some sort of jangling sound off my port side. I looked up and saw a fat beagle waddling toward me in that stupid way that only hounds can pull off and yet they still look adorable. Being that I've been around dogs all my life (well, most of it, anyway), I knew to offer my hand to Stupid Dog so that he could see I'm not a threat. The only problem is, when dogs sniff my hand to see if I'm friendly or not, they don't smell "good guy, might have spare sausage, should make him friend," they in fact smell "sucker". That's what Stupid Dog did. He sniffed my hand and immediately rolled over onto his back to show me his belly. Dawwwwwww! How can you deny this? So, I reach down and pet him. And he's a fantastic, fat beagle and he's all like "Look at me, I'm a fantastic, fat beagle. Don't you love me? Don't you want to shower me with sausages?" And I got done petting him and I said, "Well, Stupid Dog, it's time for me to go. I've got an appointment to keep." And Stupid Dog looked up at me with eyes that said "Where's the fucking sausages?" And I looked back at him and saw his tag. So, I looked at the tag. It was from someone in my neighborhood.

Since they were on the way, I loaded Stupid Dog into my car and I drove his fat, worthless ass home. Because I'm a sucker like that. To top it off, I rolled down the fucking window so that he could hang his head out of it and sniff the breeze. Most likely in search of sausages. Finally, I took him home, but instead of just dumping him out, I carried his fat ass to the door, rang the bell, and returned Stupid Dog to his rightful owners. He was so happy to be home, and his family was happy to have him back. He gave me one last look that said, "Thanks, but next time, don't forget the sausages."

See, I'm a sucker.

The thing is, I like cats, too. As much as I love the dopey companionship of a dog, I love the fuck-you-I'll-slit-your-fucking-throat attitude of cats. I like it when they stare at me from the windowsill, visually giving me the finger. I like the way that they climb up onto the bed and get in your face and purr loudly and say "The sun is up, Asshole, and you are, too! I'm going to sleep all day today, but you sure as fuck aren't going to sleep in on my watch. Now, up and at 'em. And open a can of tuna, Ebeneezer. I deserve a treat."

Yep. I sure do like cats.

Anyway, my first cat was Katy. My mom, um, liberated her from her hair dresser as a kitten. Her hair dresser had about ten thousand kittens running around the farm, and she just sort of shoved one of them into her purse on the way back to the car, figuring that Lisa would never miss one out of ten thousand cats, right? Turns out, Lisa didn't. And so I had my first true pet. I named her for a character in a book I had checked out from the library that very same day! Clearly, fate and the gods were telling me that I was going to be the proud owner of a cat. For about a week.

The dog from up the street killed her while we were away one weekend at the Lake. I came home to find her little body there in the driveway where she had been mauled. Fucking asshole dog.

My second cat I found in an old shed out behind the house of an old lady who lived two houses behind me. She was a black-and-white long-haired cat. I loved her immediately. I named her Fluffy. Because she was. She was really fluffy. Her hair was so long and so thick and so unruly that, in the winter when her coat got thicker, she would get these massive hairballs around her neck from where she would turn her head and such that I couldn't brush out--no matter how hard I tried--so that we had to wait until the spring when she started shedding for them to fall off. The only problem was, they would be so massive and they'd lay there in the grass and get all wet with dew and rain that you'd be walking along and think that you had just happened upon an aborted kitten. I'd always sort of shriek and step back and then realize "Oh, it's just one of Fluffy's hairballs". And then I'd throw it away.

Fluffy lived a pretty luxurious life. For about six months. And then the dog up the street mauled her. Fucking asshole dog. Except, this time, he didn't kill my cat. He just broke her leg. And, well, my parents, being the kind-hearted souls that they are, decided to shell out the money to have her leg fixed. Hooray! A happy ending. For once.

Fluffy was a pretty good cat, too. She was an accomplished hunter. Only problem is, she'd bring me her trophies. I can't remember the number of times I would be out in the driveway, shooting free throws, and here would come Fluffy with some dead bundle of something-or-other in her mouth, a big dumb grin on her face, and then she would lay it at my feet. The free throw stripe in the driveway became some sort of sick and twisted trophy room for the cat, or a mausoleum for various rodents, birds and lagomorphs from the yard. It all depends on your point of view.

Not knowing what to do, I'd pet her, tell her what a good kitty she was, and then I'd scoot the dead little thing over out of my way and continue on practicing. She'd finally take the morsel and go sit on top of my dad's car and eat it. "That goddamned cat's on my car again!" he'd scream as he came running out the back door, shooing her off.

I loved that cat.

She apparently had a taste for rabbit. One spring while I was in high school, a rabbit was hanging out in our side yard. My mom would watch it frolic and play in the early evening light. Then, one day, while she was sitting on the front porch, doing her duty and diligently watching the neighbors, she saw Fluffy coming through the yard, dragging something huge. Turns out, it was the rabbit. But, the rabbit was SO big, she had a hard time moving the body. Plus, she had only mortally wounded it and was apparently looking for me to show me the kill. I went out there and she was like "Look at me. I'm so proud of myself." And the rabbit said "I'm not dead yet." Okay, sorry. Tasteless, I know. So, I yelled for my dad, because I knew she would need help getting the rabbit up onto his car, so I figured he could help her.

"Oh no," my dad said, and then he did the unthinkable: He took the rabbit away from her.

Oh fuck, was she pissed. Have you ever seen a cat stomp off mad in a huff? She actually managed to do it. She stomped around the yard for a good thirty minutes, meowing loudly. And not a pretty meow. She meowed in that pissed off way. And it was constant. And, apparently, she could hold a grudge because, after she initially quieted down, she would sound off again whenever someone turned on a light inside the house. She was not happy and she was going to let everyone know about it.

Evidently, this was the final straw (the first straw being the arrival of Meg, whom she detested, because Meg thought that cats were subservient, and in case you haven't noticed, cats serve no masters). I could almost hear her little voice, amidst all the meowing that night, saying, "I bust my ass to bring you all the finest dead small animals that I can find in the yard, lay them at your feet, and then when I rid the yard of the evil leporine menace, and this is how you thank me? With a yappy little...dog...and by taking away the prize I worked so hard to ambush and kill. Well, fuck you very much. I'm going to go find an old lady to live with."

And so she did. She moved out. Took her ball and went home. Er...to a different home. She went and lived with an old woman up the hill. Every so often, she would show up on the front sidewalk. She'd look in, see that we still had the dog, and then mosey on her way with a sassy flick of the tail and the best feline cold shoulder she could offer.

So, there you have it. I'm not a dog person. I'm not a cat person. I love both dogs and cats. I'm like a paradox wrapped up in an enigma with an outer coating of contradiction and punctuated with a question mark.

And yet, despite all that, I still smell like a sucker.