A few months ago I wrote an article about our cat Aunt Suzy who had taken to pissing on the connubial bed of W. and I. Since then, many people have written to ask how that whole Suzy-pissing thing turned out, the answer to which is this: “Out of the frying pan, into the fire.” Because now our other cat, Simba, is giving us the business.
Here’s the back story:
We tried everything to get Suzy to stop pissing. We bought some overpriced pheromone plug-in technology called Feliway, we conducted various psychological assaults on Suzy’s mindset, we even mounted dogheaded scarecrows on the bedposts – all to no avail. Not until my neighbor Jill and her cat Chef moved out of the apartment complex did the urinary mattress rampage of Aunt Suzy finally cease.
See, Chef, was the biggest, baddest cat in the complex. His nickname is Fat Bastard and he was the established alpha male of the area. He even burgled our house from time to time to flaunt his authority.
Now Simba is also a large alpha male. He always stood his ground against Fat Bastard. Many a night were Willow and I jolted out of sleep by the piercing caterwaul that is two cats tumbling in a tornado of claws, fangs and bloody dander.
Aunt Suzy was another story. Look up “pussy” in the dictionary and you’ll see a picture of Suzy sitting there with her legs spread open. Whenever Fat Bastard came around, Suzy would cower on the corner of the bed while F.B. leisurely strolled the apartment, ate the cat food, marked the furniture, and gave Suzy that, “What you gonna do about it?” glare as Suzy spewed her liquid unholy all over the blankets.
It wasn’t until Fat Bastard moved away did we surmise that Suzy was cornered and marking her last piece of turf. The bed was her Little Big Horn and just like General Custer, Suzy was making her last stand (or should I say, “last squat”) against the marauding Fat Bastard?
Anyway, when Fat Bastard left, and the rain of terror subsided, oh did we rejoice! We threw parties, drank much wine, and sang “Happy Days are here again,” naked under the moonlight. But just as W. and I were about to settle into our new, piss-free existence — Simba suddenly began secreting certain noxious fluids of his own.
In other words, “Out of the toilet into the septic tank.”
It happened suddenly. Simba had inexplicably adopted the awful habit of getting into our dinner scraps either from the garbage or the dirty plates in the sink. It was terrible. Human food is poison to cats. We kept waking up every morning to find the garbage knocked over and splotches of seaweed green vomit-slops spewed across the floor as if he were puking his way through the room on a kitty-pogo stick.
*Sigh*
Once again we had to declare martial law: The garbage lid had to be weighted, dishes had to be washed immediately after every meal, and an all out Simba suicide watch was initiated. But you know how it goes. You get lazy. You finish a meal, unbuckle your pants, turn on the TNT Law and Order two-fer and slip into glorious food coma hoping against all hope that this time Simba will stay out of the scraps.
Yeah right.
Last night I lost my temper. Detective Brisco was about to deliver one of his notorious, standing-over-the-corpse quips when I spied Simba, whiskers deep in a leftover bowl of cheese and broccoli soup.
“Get down Simba!” I yelled.
He gave me that, “Who are you kidding?” scoff and went back to licking the bowl. Enraged, I grabbed a nearby butane lighter and whipped it as hard as possible at the furry scavenger demon. The lighter missed wide and Simba took off in a bolt.
Seething, I walked over to the kitchen, rinsed out a bottle of Formula 409 cleanser, and filled it with tap water. I got a black magic marker and scribbled the words “Cat-X” on the label, then sat back on the recliner with the bottle in my lap and waited. When Simba returned and tried to tip over the garbage, I blasted her face with four angry pumps.
Now, I know a lot of you cat lovers believe that spraying water at cats is traumatic to them. But before you condemn me, may I first make a comment about the meaning of trauma?
Trauma is climbing into your bed after a long, hard night of bartending only to find the blankets saturated with yellowy helljuice.
Trauma is waking up every other morning, half-asleep and barefoot, and slipping on a pile of cat-vomit like you’re living inside some sort of Jerry Lewis banana peel gag.
Traumatically is how W. and have been living for the last 6 months so if I have to spit a little water at my cats to stop all that, then so be it.
And oh does my Cat-X™ work like a charm. The puking has stopped. Simba stays out of the leftovers. And we got Suzy all whipped into shape. Like when Suzy starts meow, meow meowing for food. I just blast her once in the face to show her what for.
“Food comes when I say food comes, cat!”
Sometimes, just for fun, W. and I chase them around the apartment indiscriminately spraying after them like a couple of high school berserkers, shooting and shouting, “No justice no peace – mwooh-ha-ha-ha.”
Traumatizing? What do I care? If spraying you is wrong, I don’t want to be right.
EJD
06/05/05
