Living in a home that smells like cat piss is more than just an inconvenience. After a while that odor, it defines you. It seeps into the furniture and the walls and soon you become: "Those people." And you long for the day when you were a person whose home did not smell like cat piss - which you never really appreciated.
It's like the Meat Loaf lyric, "It was long ago and it was far away and it was so much better than it is today."
Because I used to love that cat. But now my hatred rages. I considered euthanasia, of course, but realized I'm much too cowardly to kill myself. So I considered killing Suzy instead. I Considered driving her over to the local Dr. Catvorkian and be done with it. I am apparently too chicken for that as well. I just can't go through with it. See, I've already driven a beloved pet to the pet-executioner, and it was a heart-wrenching, soul-sapping experience. . .
Barney was an average-sized male mixed breed with shiny black hair and bright white spots. We were living a covert existence in a large apartment complex that enforced a strict, No Pets policy.
One morning I caught Barney pissing in the corner of my bedroom. I was furious. This was not something he had ever done before since I always left a window open for him to come and go as he pleased.
When I saw what he was doing, I leapt out of bed, and gave him a stern "git-outta-here" swat in the right rear buttocks. To my horror, Barney's leg just swung 360 degrees like a gearless clock hand. Turns out poor Barney's leg was fractured, which explained why he was pissing inside the apartment, because he couldn't jump up and out of his cat window.
Awash in guilt I raced to the emergency room where they said Barn was going to need a pin in his leg and a cast which cost about 900 dollars.
Keep in mind, this happened in 1985. I had just moved to San Diego and was bagging groceries part-time for minimum wage. I had nothing to spare. However, money is no object when it comes to an old friend in need, so I scraped some dough together and paid for the procedure.
The vet said to restrict his movement post-op, so when I brought him home, I built him a cardboard cat house with tiny windows, bedding, and food and water. Then I put him inside and hurried off to work. I came home that night to find Barney had escaped the cardboard cat house, got outside, got into some brawls, lost his cast, and returned with a displaced pin and re-shattered leg.
Now I really really couldn't afford a new pin and cast but that my Inner Voice of Guilt (IVG) reminded me that Barn was an old friend and money is not an object when it comes to old friends, so I begged and borrowed some more money to pay Barney's medical bills and nursed him back to health.
About or week or two after his right leg healed, unfuckingbelievably, Barney came home with another broken leg. This time it was the left leg and it was the same thing all over again.
Well that's it, I thought. I couldn't possible pay for another surgery, but then, you know, that old Inner Voice of Guilt chimed in again saying, Money is no object when it comes to old friend's in need. So I paid another 900 dollars to put another pin and another cast on another of Barney's legs and it's like I'm building some sort of Frankencat Mouser over here, with the pins, and the scars, and the shaved fur. But he's a good old cat and it was good to have him back.
Three weeks later I received an official notice on my door which said something to the effect of, "Get rid of the cat or be evicted." And I stood there reading the letter thinking how there is absolutely no way I can afford a relocation. Not now. No way. Not possible.
But money is no object when it come to a friend...," said my Inner Voice of Guilt.
"Blow me," I snapped back at my IVG. "I don't see you chipping anything in, fucking cheap-ass.
So I made the heartbreaking decision to drive old Barn to his executioner. And those meows he meowed from his little cage on the back seat during that fateful drive of death still haunts me today.
This is why I can't do Suzy like that. I couldn't live with the two of them meowing their ghostly meows in unison for all eternity, "Please don't kill us, meow. You're supposed to protect us, meow."
No. The decision is made. I will not kill Aunt Suzy. Instead, I'll just root for cat-cancer. "Come oooon cat cancer," I sometimes say like I'm rolling craps.
"Come on water delivery truck!
"Come on rabid dog attack.
"Come 'on Rusty or Rinny or Buster or Spot.
"Come on 'future-serial-killer-practicing-dismemberment-on-the-neighborhood-pets' guy.
"Come on someone, anyone or thing, please, take this cat for a ride. I just don't have the guts to do it myself."
And I'm praying for the end of time
is all that I can do - wooh-wooooh.
I'm praying for the end of time so I can end my time with you.
EJD
11/03/05