To detour from self-promotion, pop-cultural alienation,Â and failedÂ stabs at humor, it must be noted that I am amazed daily that one of my cats is about to turn thirteen.Â This will beÂ simpleâ€¦the sort of thingÂ one might read on an Elliot Smith fanâ€™s blog.
This (once) solid black, longhaired, somewhat overweightÂ and big-boned (heâ€™s aÂ BIG cat) asshole makes a frequent habit ofÂ vomitingÂ hairballsÂ onto my bed, records, and books. His hair is turning a combination of black, gray, and maroon.Â TheÂ name I gave this animalÂ is â€œMarcel.â€ It means nothing. Heâ€™s smart, one of those â€œlike a dogâ€ cats, which is good, as I donâ€™t like dogs. Cats are the thinking manâ€™s pet. Dogs are a complete hassle.
One of Marcelâ€™s asshole moves went like this:
One night, I returned home from a long evening of drinking to find one of Marcelâ€™s bottom fangs protruding from his mouth at a right angle. Suffering from a fairly serious abscess, Marcel was rushed to the vetÂ during the next dayâ€™s mind-shattering hangoverÂ (not much you can do about this at four in the morning). OneÂ confusing, blurry dayÂ and $600 later, Marcel was returnedÂ home minus his two bottom grabbers (one had simply fallen out earlier that yearâ€¦I found it on the floor).
Several years prior, Marcel was prancing around on my balcony and fell fourteen feet, belly-floppingÂ a concrete flowerbed border. He cracked two ribs and shredded his front claws inÂ the failed attempt to regain purchase before the fall. Needless to say, it was soft food for a month. PRESCRIPTION soft food. Familiar with the racket that is prescription pet food? Letâ€™s hope not.
At times, considering some of the healthy gifts that Marcel leaves in the litter box, I hallucinate that I own a giraffe. Either that or a large man is sneaking into my home to use my catâ€™s toilet. I like to confront Marcel while heâ€™s doing the business. Yelling â€œBAD CATâ€ usually does wonders for his little walnut brain.
Marcel gets along fine with his adopted sister, a very fat (18 – 19 pounds) orange tabby named â€œThe Mayor.â€ I absorbedÂ The MayorÂ into the foldÂ during the summer of 1998, thus replacing her predecessor, a fascinating cat named â€œColby.â€ Colby could fetch and hadÂ bi-coloredÂ fur. Each hair started out white, and turned black, giving her the look of a cuddly ashtray.Â Sadly, Colby died of kidney failure after months of incredibly stressful treatment. The Mayor has a tiny frame. Her obesity makesÂ it appear as though she swallowed a grapefruit.Â The other cat in the house, my girlfriendâ€™s beautiful calico that owned theÂ premises before I moved in, is another story. Marcel emotionallyÂ and physically terrorizesÂ this cat on a daily basis.
Aside from my mom and fewer than four others, Iâ€™ve kept a longer relationship with Marcel than any other warm-blooded creature.
This is not an obit, nor is Marcel ill. If anything,Â he is a little too healthy for a 13-year-old cat, but if he continues to rob me of a good nightâ€™s sleep (hairball barfing, furniture destruction, needless howling at all hours), there will be issues that require tissues.
Yeah, right. Marcel is untouchable. You can view Marcel and my two lesser cats by visiting my MySpace profile. Youâ€™ll have to find that on your own. Dig around forÂ a picture of me with a horrible haircut, â€œworkingâ€ in bed.
Hereâ€™s to you, Marcel, mayÂ there beÂ many more years in our love/hate relationship.
See, I told you.