El Gato Negro

Joey. El Gato Negro. Little Bitch. Fuck Face.

The cat goes by many names. But as of today, it gets a new one. Side-Stripe.

I can hear the Little Bitch right now as I type up this post. He's meowing because his tooth hurts. You ask why? Well, I was in California last week visiting Dave and I wasn't home to witness the quality cat handling skills of his keeper.

But when I got back, it turns out that Fuck Face had a busted tooth that had to be extracted. For reasons unknown. But I would give it a rough estimate that Side-Stripe's keeper fails to brush his teeth. Why? You take a guess. (I'll give you a hint, his name starts with DJ.)

Allegedly, the cat needed to be put under in order to extract the tooth. What a pussy.

And in order to do that, they had to give him a side-stripe in order to inject him with drugs. At the whopping cost of something like $400. It was probably worth it to put him down. (It would have definitely saved lots of people a lot of time and money.)

But no. Instead of having a useless cat that sheds and does nothing but make a mess. There now resides a cat in my house that sheds, does nothing, makes a mess and has a stupid ass Side-Stripe.

Seriously?

Yeah... Switzerland.

Parents Pets Cont'd

My parents (for the most part) have always been animal junkies. When I was young, I complained because we had no animals. Once my parents relented, the flood gates were open. Currently, my parents have two dogs, three cats, and a parrot. We used to have an iguana, but iguana's are not pets. Iguana's are lizards.

T$'s story reminded me of a recent tale. Two years ago, a cat landed on my parent's front yard. This stray arrived in fine fashion. He had a dog food can stuck to his head. I wish I had a picture to show you, but you will have to use your imagination.

Since the arrival of this cat, which has had about a dozen names (I call him "The Virus"), my parent's home has never been the same. One would think that a cat meandering the neighborhood with a can stuck to his head would be empty-headed, but as it turns out, this is the most intelligent cat to ever been born. There are plenty of stories that I could share to prove this but this one shall suffice.

About a month ago, southern California was being pounded by winter storms. "The Virus" like most cats, hates getting wet. What's a cat that needs to pee to do? My mother would shove him out the door, but he would hang out under the awning. This cat does not like liquid. My mother let's "The Virus" back into the house.

Meanwhile, my youngest brother is in the bathroom fixing his hair when "The Virus" makes his way back into the bathroom. My brother is admiring himself in the mirror when he hears the sound of liquid splashing in the toliet water. Unsure, my brother turns to invistigate the noise. Low and behold, "The Virus" is taking a piss. The cat has taught himself to use the toliet.

Now, I know that cat's can be trained to do this, but this cat has not. My parents do not even have litter boxes. I have researched the process to train a cat to do this and it does not look simple. So, true to his name, "The Virus" has adapted and could soon be spreading.

Dear Baby Jesus: A Special Delivery.

My parents got a dog when all their kids left the house. A cute little Malamute named Nikita with a grin and floppy tongue. She also has a thick coat of soft hair which is as cute as it is voluminous: a fire hose of fur when she sheds (which is often). Aside from the hair that clings determinably to clothes, people seem to love this dog because of her friendly personality and appealing appearance. But her temperament and physical characteristics are irrelevant for the purposes of this story, aside from her unremarkable ability to crap on a regular basis.

This dog, like most others, gets walked on a predictable schedule. I expect that this resulting compulsion to go out for walks was also an ancillary reason for my parents to acquire her. Anyway, I had the pleasure of accompanying my dad and Nikki on a walk when I was home in Spokane a couple years ago. Our route has us leave the house, meander around the neighborhood (a miniature version of a Beaverton suburban maze) a bit, hang a left on Mill Road and then head up into an undeveloped forested zone behind my old high school. About halfway between the neighborhood and the forest, though, is the Northview Bible Church, a bastion of American sub-culture Christianity. Now, I had been to this church fairly regularly when I was in High School, largely because of its proximity. This is the sort of place where you get preached the critical importance of loving the world, but are simultaneously encouraged to distance yourself from non-Christian friends. The kind of prayerland where you are invited to worship the Almighty in your own way, and then are given a look askew if you do so in any way which varies from the status quo. I can tell you from extensive experience that these are genuinely nice people, who time and again demonstrate obliviousness of their hypocrisy. And yes, a republican voting record appeared mandatory for membership.

Now my parents are normally very dutiful when it comes to cleaning up after Nikki. They stuff their pockets with plastic bags before embarking on the walk, and when Nikki fulfills her mission, they do what respectful doggy owners do. The put their hands inside the bag, turned inside out a la mode, and pick up the cute little Malamute doggy dung, feeling its heft and warmth with only the thin film of solid petroleum protecting their skin and sensibilities. Strange, isn't it? How that plastic bag, designed to hold unknown convenience store treasures (cigarettes, Gatorade, jerky, etc.), is suddenly as trusted as a condom? When filled, they tie an awkward knot in the bag and daintily carry the bulging sack between their thumb and forefinger until they get to a neighbor's trashcan.

This time, however, as Nikki squats and strains on the driveway of the Northview Bible Church, no such courtesy was extended. Now, speaking of behalf of myself and probably my dad, I can honestly say that there is no bitterness in my heart: only the profound sense of irony that was too potent to betray by good dog-owner stewardship. I couldn't see it where we were standing on the sidewalk, but I knew that there was a sign facing inward on the church driveway, designed for those exiting the Sunday service. It reads "Your ministry starts here." My vision, then, was of the churchgoer, whose heart was filled with optimism and the promise of malleable pagan hearts, waiting for a chance to share the love of Jesus. Then, at the gates of the pagan world, they are welcomed with a heaping steaming malleable pile of dog shit.