Holy Cat Crap Batman

 

So. Now that my life has settled back into the lunacy that is my routine, I have time to tend to my regularities. State Farm did right by me on the claim from the wreck, I bought a new car to replace my beloved Tahoe, and my webber and bloggie problems were cleared up when Dustin finally convinced me to leave GoDaddy and find a new hoster site.

I was first attracted to GoDaddy because of Danica Patrick, and I stayed dedicated to them in the hopes that my loyalty would be returned with stellar service. But I had so many problems with the operational aspects here to Mooner Land on the I-net that Danica Patrick couldn’t keep my account at GoDaddy if she promised to be my sex slave for a week.

Anyway, things are back to normal and maybe I lied about the sex slave dealie.

Squirt has been spending too much time with her soon-to-be-ex-owner, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson. Ex-wife number one, and my longtime psycho therapist, Sammy said that I’ve been dragging my feet in locating a cat to trade for the Squirt. “I want you to leave Squirt with me until you are ready to put some serious time into the cat search, Mooner. You are taking advantage of my good humor,” is what she said in my therapy session the other day.

“Well, I might not have cat adoption at the top of my list right now, but the only good humor you have has a wooden stick and is sold from an ice cream truck.” I am a seriously funny sumbitch.

“Oh, you think you are soooooo funny. Just to let you know I’m serious, you have until the first of May to get the cat, or the deal is off.”

See that you guys. Have I been telling you she’s a major bitch?

“Bitch,” I tell her.

“Well, Mooner, my crazier than a loon ex-husband, I might be a bitch, but your time is up. Pay your bill on your way out.”

She really is a bitch, and that’s why the Squirt and I spent all of yesterday trolling for a cat. Squirt and I have thought carefully through this entire cat thingie and we have determined that the best solution is to have a cat adopt us rather than for us to just look at enough cats to find one we like. See, I don’t care for cats one way or the other, and well, the best way to say what the rest of it is, is to say that Squirt is a dog.

We had already spent the better part of a week’s time looking for a fucking cat before yesterday. I bought a case of canned sardines and a pound of catnip to use as cat bait, and we visited the animal shelters and answered ads in the paper until we were ready to get drunk. We did everything we could to get cats to like us.

We fed them sardines and gave them one of the little cachet dealies that Gram made for us to stuff with catnip. Furry little fuckers would act like our best buddies to get us to give them the goodies, and then they would ignore the shit out of us when they finished the sardines. They’d lick their paws and clean themselves in that sexy feline languid tongue bath thing they do. Then they would do this love/hate thing with the catnip toy.

They would rub their face on the cachet and then roll around on it, all dreamy-eyed and purring. Then, with a sudden burst of anger, the toy would be kicked and scratched and bitten as if it were a mortal enemy.

Stupid fucking cats.

We answered an ad at this one place where we encountered a classic cat lady. Since my Tahoe was wrecked and my new car was getting prepped for me, Squirt and I were in my classic GTO, driving with the windows down. We found the address and I parked at the curb, which was about fifty feet from the house that sat back from the street.

Squirt sniffed the formerly clear, clean air and said to me, she said, “Eiuw. ?Que diablos es ese olor, Monsieur Mooner?” Then she sniffed some more and said, “Es riecht nach le merde de gato.”

My nose lacks the olfactory sensitivity contained in the snout of the little soon-to-be-my dog, but I smelled it too. “You’re right, little lady. That’s a hell of a cat shit stink.”

We got out of the car and started to the front door of the little house. Each step brought stronger cat odors. “I think we mis-diagnosed this one. Smells like cat piss to me.”

Squirt answered, “Comme Gram dit-elle you jours, Mooner. Wer gibt einen shit?”

“Yea, Gram nailed this one, Squirt. It doesn’t make a shit what it is, this shit stinks to high heaven.”

I had decided to go back to the car when we were twenty feet from the house. But the door sneaked open a crack and this woman, maybe forty and skinny as a rail, peered at us from between the door and its frame. She was hiding all but her eyes, which were themselves hidden behind dark cat-eye framed sunglasses.

“Are you Mr. Johnson?” she asked. Her voice sounded like cats claws scratching on concrete.

“Yes, and this little lady with me is Squirt.”

She gave the two of us a nervous appraisal. “All right, you look harmless to me.” And with that she shut the door to unlatch it. When she opened the door just the first foot, at least a hundred cats came screeching and caterwauling out the door past our feet.

There were fucking cats everywhere and each was acting like its tail was on fire. “Oh, they’ll come back around for their feeding,” the woman said. “Why don’t you and the Mrs. come inside while we wait on the kitties to come back?”

“Ah, no, that’s OK,” I told her. “We don’t have time to wait.”

Squirt and I almost raced to the GTO and got in. “Hurry Mooner. Get me the hell out of here.” The Squirt was hunkered down on the floor board, a grimace latched on her face.

I almost laid a patch of tire rubber but there were cats in the road. I decided it might be a mistake to run over one. After we got a few block from the stinky house I patted the seat and said, “Come on sweetie, the cats are all gone and you need to buckle up.”

I pulled to the curb and got the miniature dog harnessed in. I was fumbling with the latch on her seat belt and I cussed. That started Squirt to laughing which started me to laughing. We had tears in our eyes, the both of us in a giggle fest. I said, “That was the smelliest place I’ve ever been. Now I know why nobody composts cat litter,” and then we started laughing again.

After a while we settled down, and as I was putting the car in gear to pull out, I heard crying from somewhere in the back seat. It was a weird noise and it was making the hair stand up on Squirt’s back. She growled and said, “He oido de un gato, Senor Mooner. It sounds like a cat crying.”

I put the GTO in neutral, pushed the emergency brake and turned the car off. Squirt growled again– a resonating that comes from deep in her bones, and she started vibrating. I looked over the back of the seat and saw nothing, but suddenly the crying turned into mewling.

“That’s a fucking cat!” Squirt shrieked, and she started barking maniacally, wrenching at her harness to get out.

“Well if it’s a cat silly, you need to settle down or I’ll never get it out of here.”

I found the cat, a young Siamese female, hiding under my seat. “Tell her to come out Squirt, tell her it’s OK to come out.”

The Squirt growled once more and said, “Je ne parle pas no fucking gato.”

“What do you mean you aren’t talking any cat. Didn’t Dixie teach you how to speak cat?”

OK, look everybody. It’s late and I have some chores to finish before bedtime. How about I crack my last Carta Blanca for the day and get back with you manana. OK?

Print Friendly

Leave a Reply