Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Cats On Hallucinogens And Foster's Balls

Monday was a monumental day in my life. It was the day I went and had my dog Foster Charmington’s balls chopped off at the local spay and neuter clinic. Really it was probably more of a monumental day in his life since he is now the one with no balls while mine are still clanging away and getting sat on at inopportune times, but since I had to drive him there and back, it was kind of a big deal for me. The traffic was horrible.

I tried to get an appointment for him at the massage parlor for a full puppy massage with a happy ending but they don’t do that stuff anymore since the police crackdown.

I kid, I kid. They still do that, I just couldn’t afford it.

So anyway, Mr. Charmington lost his balls and I’m not really too sure how I feel about that. On one hand, I’m happy that his balls are gone because then maybe he will stop being so impulsive and shitting everywhere and humping my other dog’s shoulder. On the other hand, the doctor TOOK HIS BALLS.

Where do they put them? In a Ziplock baggie? I want to know.

I take that back, I don’t really want to know. I just kind of want to know, the same way I want to know what they do with amputated feet and people who get kicked off of reality game shows. Do they all go to the same place? Are they ever going to do a “How It’s Made” on that topic?

The thing I really wanted to talk about, though, had less to do with Foster’s balls disappearing into the ether and more to do with what happens to old women that causes them to have cats.

I know there are some cat lovers out there reading this blog, and I don’t know why. Seriously, cats are the worst. The. Worst.

I can say this not only because it is true, but because it is extra special DOUBLE true. Cats are the worst. It’s a scientific fact. Trust me. I wrote the Wikipedia page on it and everything.

Kittens? They’re okay. Cute, furry and playful, they kind of remind me of my own balls. But when they grow up and start spraying piss everywhere and attacking your feet while you sleep and not liking me because I am dating their owner I have to draw the line.

Anyway, I was in a waiting room with 4 older women at the Spay and Neuter clinic, waiting to pick up my dog. Turns out all 4 of these old biddies (I can say that because they most definitely fit the description) were there to pick up their cat. Not that there was one cat being split up between the four of them, there were four cats for four biddies.

There goes another band name, free of charge. Cats For Biddies. Use it wisely.

As I said, I’m in a room with 4 old ladies waiting for their cats. I was subjected to the horror that is old women describing exactly how sassy their cat is, how they like to use the litter box in the kitchen instead of the one in the laundry room, how Miss Muffy (I’m not making that up) stares out the window all day and that is “just the most precious thing” ever, how their cats get along with all of their other cats, how there is a mean orange boy cat that comes around the backyard from time to time and eats her flowers, how her husband doesn’t like the cat (no surprise there) and whatever incredibly boring stories people could ever possibly tell about a cat. I realized I was in my own special version of hell until a lady came out of the back room.

It was the Give Back The Animals lady. Hooray!

So the lady in charge of giving us back our animals that had fewer body parts than we brought them in with has to give everyone a speech about how their animal is going to be behaving for the next 2-5 days. But the BEST part was when she told the ladies, “Just so you know, the cats are all on hallucinogenic drugs right now, so WHATEVER you do, DO NOT try to cuddle them when you get home. They will claw your face off.”

Suddenly the Spay and Neuter clinic has become my favorite place on earth. Cats on hallucinogens? Are you kidding me? Can I come here every day for this? Do you have an internship for that?

The inevitable line of questions from the ladies with diarrhea of the mouth starts to flow (with a special appearance by my own personal thoughts in parenthesis):

Q: Can we cuddle them?
A: No, they will claw your face off. (That’s fucking awesome. Seriously.)

Q: What if she’s been declawed?
A: You can try, but they might bite your face off. (Please can I come to your house with a video camera, just in case? Because I know you’re going to need stitches before the clock strikes midnight.)

Q: Can she play with the other cats I have?
A: No, just put her in the back room alone and let her come off the drugs. (Ha ha, your cat is going to feel like she is at a Phish concert for the next 12 hours.)

Q: But they are friends. What if the other cats are worried?
A: They’re not. Put them in a room by themselves with a litter box and let them recover until tomorrow.

Q: Can we use a shoe box for the litter? (Seriously?)
A: You can use whatever you think will work.

Q: How about a baking pan? (Umm, she just answered that, dumbass)
A: Whatever you think will work.

Q: I think a shoebox will work. (Hooray for thought processes and your ability to separate the useful ones from the not useful ones.)
A: Then use one. Just don’t try to cuddle the cats. (Ha ha, hallucinogens, alliteration, I rule!)

The line of borderline retarded questioning went on for a lot longer than you would think was humanly possible until you realize that most of the old women are so used to talking inanely to their cats that any kind of answer besides a contemptuous swish of the tail and an arrogant blink of the eyelids is such a change of pace they like to keep it going until someone really does claw them in the face or spray piss on their drapes.

Luckily it seemed that the lady in charge was used to that level of questioning and just started bringing animals out so people would stop asking stupid questions and start cooing and making “goo goo” noises at their cats instead of spinning deeper and deeper into the seemingly bottomless pit of stupid questions and comments.

The first woman to get her cat had it in a carrier and held it so the cat’s face was about 2 feet from my face while she filled out her paperwork to leave. Now I don’t have a lot of experience with hallucinogenic drugs and their effects, but it was obvious that the cat in that carrier was FUCKED UP. And I’m not talking Cheech and Chong fucked up. This cat was “Look at all the pretty colors” fucked up.

And then a lady next to me, not knowing just how messed up that cat was, decided to put her finger in front of the cat’s face to give it a little “coochie coo” action. If I were required to put words to the look on the cat’s face, here is what I would have put money on going through that cat’s mind:

WHOA! What the hell is that thing? Get it away from me, it’s freaking HUGE! Why does it move like that? Oh my god the world is closing in all around me. Did the wall just say my name? I think I can hear my hair growing. Where’s Jerry Garcia when you need him?

Just as I was really enjoying getting into that cat’s head, Foster Charmington came running out of the room on his leash, dragging the girl behind him. I had to check to make sure they really took his balls because he seemed way too chipper to have just lost the ability to do the Balls/Johnson dance. Upon further inspection, yes, they took his balls.

“He’s still on some good painkillers right now. They should last about 12 hours.”

So apparently he was too numb and happy to be mad at me, so he ran to me and licked my hand and was generally very glad to be in the hands of someone without a scalpel. I filled out the paperwork and got him in the car, where he immediately fell over in the seat because, yes, the painkillers were some good shit. I drove him home and he spent the next 4 hours alternating between being really alert, running around the house and falling over at random times on the couch as the painkillers did their job on the time release.

The good news is he still likes me. The bad news is I didn’t get any of those ladies’ addresses so I can’t go check to see how bad they all got scratched up.

B!