There’s another man in my life that I don’t really talk about much.
He’s a total fricken’ pussy, in all senses of the word but I think it’s time I let him out from under the bed, metaphorically speaking, because realistically he ain’t coming out for no one until it’s good and dark , and the kids are in bed.
I’m not hiding him from you – he’s fairly wraith like in his abilities to make himself scarce – but for such a small, quiet dude he’s probably the biggest jerk in the house. Mind you, that would probably just depend on the day.
We all seem to take turns, myself excluded.
I’ve referred to him in passing, and mentioned how he ruins my stuff by ignoring his array of expensive scratching posts and choosing instead to scratch the shit out of my big, gay, salmon couch.
10 years ago I was dating a dude who paraded me past the vet’s window when there was a tiny, weeny, bald shaven kitten the size of a fist who had been eaten by a dog.
The dog owners found the poor creature in their yard and they took it to the vet where their initial thoughts were to euthenaise the kitten… until he looked at the lady vet with his big green eyes and she was a G.O.N.E.R..
‘Look at him, BAY-by‘ said the boyfriend. He used to emphasise that first syllable of baby. I kinda liked it.
‘He wants to come home with us.’
But I wanted a Lady Puss. Not a Man Cat.
I went, solo, for a moggy date to the vets to hold the poor, sick cat that I did not want to prove to myself how much I did not want him.
Who was I kidding? Schmuck.
Those green eyes with flecks of gold clocked me and……G.O.N.E.R.
My whole life I’ve picked the broken waifs and strays and tried to fix them, did I really think I wouldn’t crumble and desire to give this boy cat all the puss love I had in my heart?
This was pretty much how my love life went in my 20’s. Find a broken one, and try to save him… although there was a little stint of find a young one and train him up.
Needless to say, those paramours fell away into sweet fragments of my history but a cat is no short love affair.
Anyhoo, 40 minutes and 50 bucks later, I was told I could pick up my kitten in a few weeks when his wounds had healed, and heal he did. Mister Fluffy Pants, aka The Jerk, is reaching middle age age now at a ripe old 10 years old.
When I cried, he sat with me, when I got drunk, he slunk around my ankles, and when I got laid he’d try to sit on the bed, with various success depending on the modesty of my lover. We were a team for a few years, Pants and I.
He was always shy after his traumatic beginnings. So much so that for years no one believed I even had a cat but when it was just he and I home, he loved life.
I guess where it all went south for The Jerk was when I shacked up.
Mister H hates cats, Mister Fluffy Pants in particular, but that makes Pants more determined to sit on him.
I like that about cats.
To make feline matters worse I got knocked up. I didn’t want Pants sitting all up in my face, and he’s never forgiven me for the little peeps. He thinks they’re the jerks.
Mr F Pants treats me like his girlfriend, which I’m supposed to be flattered about but in actuality it means that he randomly attacks me, and only me, in a display of power that I’m supposed to find sexy… but I don’t.
I find it creepy, and a scary, and my ankles constantly have razor like slashes across them from his onslaughts.
His preferred place to vomit is either on my Persian rug or my cow hide…. never on the vast expanse of wooden floor.
I feel for that Jerk though. Living his days sleeping under the bed, hiding from sticky, grabby hands and coming out to bite me at night.
It’s not easy going from being Top Cat to Top Jerk.
How the furry fall.