It’s official, here comes the worst blog entry in Failed Pilot history.
To detour from self-promotion, pop-cultural alienation, and failed stabs at humor, it must be noted that I am amazed daily that one of my cats is about to turn thirteen. This will be simple…the sort of thing one might read on an Elliot Smith fan’s blog.
This (once) solid black, longhaired, somewhat overweight and big-boned (he’s a BIG cat) asshole makes a frequent habit of vomiting hairballs onto my bed, records, and books. His hair is turning a combination of black, gray, and maroon. The name I gave this animal is “Marcel.” It means nothing. He’s smart, one of those “like a dog” cats, which is good, as I don’t like dogs. Cats are the thinking man’s pet. Dogs are a complete hassle.
One of Marcel’s asshole moves went like this:
One night, I returned home from a long evening of drinking to find one of Marcel’s bottom fangs protruding from his mouth at a right angle. Suffering from a fairly serious abscess, Marcel was rushed to the vet during the next day’s mind-shattering hangover (not much you can do about this at four in the morning). One confusing, blurry day and $600 later, Marcel was returned home minus his two bottom grabbers (one had simply fallen out earlier that year…I found it on the floor).
Several years prior, Marcel was prancing around on my balcony and fell fourteen feet, belly-flopping a concrete flowerbed border. He cracked two ribs and shredded his front claws in 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? Let’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 cat’s toilet. I like to confront Marcel while he’s doing the business. Yelling “BAD CAT” 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 “The Mayor.” I absorbed The Mayor into the fold during the summer of 1998, thus replacing her predecessor, a fascinating cat named “Colby.” Colby could fetch and had bi-colored fur. Each hair started out white, and turned black, giving her the look of a cuddly ashtray. Sadly, Colby died of kidney failure after months of incredibly stressful treatment. The Mayor has a tiny frame. Her obesity makes it appear as though she swallowed a grapefruit. The other cat in the house, my girlfriend’s beautiful calico that owned the premises before I moved in, is another story. Marcel emotionally and physically terrorizes this cat on a daily basis.
Aside from my mom and fewer than four others, I’ve kept a longer relationship with Marcel than any other warm-blooded creature.
This is not an obit, nor is Marcel ill. If anything, he is a little too healthy for a 13-year-old cat, but if he continues to rob me of a good night’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. You’ll have to find that on your own. Dig around for a picture of me with a horrible haircut, “working” in bed.
Here’s to you, Marcel, may there be many more years in our love/hate relationship.
See, I told you.