It’s no secret that I’m the finder of odd things (baggies of diamonds, a child, a can of diet Coke), which, is going to make this story incredibly anti-climactic, so be warned.
I’ve spent the better part of two weeks on the couch, wearing an Aunt Becky shaped groove into my couch, moaning histrionically while my cat watched from a distance, all, “bitch, you be crazy – ain’t nobody here to hear your pitifulness besides me and I don’t give a rat’s ass.” Cats, man, not the most sympathetic of creatures.
I’d thought it was low-grade depression, but no, it turns out that I’ve had the flu, which is my PSA for “GET A FLU SHOT, FOR THE LOVE OF BUTTER.” Being me, I had assorted complications with aforementioned flu, none of which are in the slightest bit interesting (okay, malnutrition is kinda wacky, but that’s neither here nor there).
The one thing that kept me sane was playing online games on my iPad (Monster Pet Shop, you are a cruel, cruel mistress) because I was too full of the histrionic to even attempt sitting up long enough to do anything at my computer, which, if you ask me, is the epitome of pathetic. But that is neither here nor there.
Finally, on Saturday night, after tearing myself away from Tiny Tower,
I decided that it was high time to get off my ass and take out the garbage which had been silently taunting me for days. It was all, “I need to be taken out and yooooooouuuuu can’t do it. Ha-ha!” and I was all, “We’ll see who’s the bitch now, motherfucker.”
Apparently, the flu makes you weaker than a mosquito in cold weather, because I swear to you, Pranksters, I’ve never had so much trouble taking out the trash in my life, even WITHOUT household appliances attacking me. I had to take a breather on one of the benches overlooking the river before I could even attempt to crawl back into my house and see what online games required my immediate and undivided attention.
It was then that I saw him.
Now, my neighbors are known for walking their house-pets around, especially cats, which has both befuddled and betwixt me, because, well, who wants to take a CAT for a WALK? Mine would be all, “shit bitch, shut your whore mouth,” the moment I tried to strap a dog harness around him (he’s not fat – he’s just big-boned!)(also: he likes Cheesy Poofs)(then again, who doesn’t?). He’d probably sever one of my pesky – yet important – blood vessels before he let me take him outdoors.
But anyway, the sight of my neighbor walking around with a cat isn’t nearly as shocking as it should be.
“Hi,” he said (my neighbor, not the cat). “Are you missing a cat?”
I looked around wondering if this was a code, but before I could respond, the cat began twirling itself around my ankles all, “I love you,” which is a far cry from my own cat, who’s all, “I love being fat.” I looked down at it and realized it didn’t weigh 82,747 pounds, therefore, it was not my cat. Also: it was orange, which my cat is not.
“Um,” I said, still a bit winded and more than a bit weirded out by the cat who was now making sweet love to my calf. “No.”
“This cat,” he explained, “was in my car. I noticed it when I was over at one of those big box stores. I’d bring him in but I have a small baby at home and I don’t know what the cat could do.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I WAS the small baby at my home, and instead looked down at the cat, who had firmly attached itself to my leg like a barnacle. I sighed.
“I can take him in for the weekend,” I agreed, knowing that I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t and something happened to the cat. “Then I can see if I can track down his owner.”
The dude smiled, obviously relieved that he’d passed his stalker onto me. The cat, I swear, grinned like the Cheshire Cat as it sprung into my apartment, all, “lookit me, I’m so damn cute.”
I call him Dolomite, rather than “Three-Pete,” which is the name I should’ve given him, in following in my pattern of naming orange cats “Pete.”
Upon further inspection, I realized that Dolomite has been traveling quite a bit – his paws are busted from walking and he’s in dire need of some food and water.
And I’ll nurse him back to health because it’s the right thing to do.
Once, of course, I’m done restocking my Tiny Tower shoe store.
Got any better names for me, Pranksters? I should warn you that my other cat? His name is “Basement Kitty,” or, as I like to call him now that I’ve moved, “Basementless Kitty,” which goes to show you how badly I name animals.