I am not going to buy any cat toys, ever, again. Except for the pillow of catnip shaped like a fish. But only that one. I cannot count the number of cat toys littering the floors of my house…and yet the only things that Buster has a Vital Interest in are 1) the pull cords for the blinds in my study windows (this includes the draperies as well); 2) the wadded up credit card slip from the pub that fell out of my pocket; and 3. any of my stuffed animals.
Number 1 is easy: the pull cords have rattley little plastic bits on the end that are of a good consistency for chewing on, and the sheer drapes provide camouflage for the discriminating Bobble-Hunting Cat. At this very moment, Buster has managed to bag three (3) of the blind bobbles in very quick order.
Number 2 is easy as well: it glides across the wooden floor like a hockey puck, and is small enough to be shot under the edge of the furniture yet large enough not to become invisible when that happens. At this very moment – the bobbles having been defeated – Buster has shot his wad of paper into the base of my floor lamp, where it is taunting him with seemingly easy access through the metal frill-work on the lamp itself.
Number 3 is a Special Issue, one familiar to this feline’s fan club. When I got Buster, I was informed that he had a “high play need”. No shit – the blind bobbles and my credit card slip can attest to that. I also was informed that he “plays roughly with others”. What I saw this meant was that he attacked anyone be perceived to be a legitimate target, defeated them wholly, and stole their toys to satisfy his “high play need”. This is one reason why this is a Single Cat Household.
The other reason is more complicated. If you’re under the age of 18, stop reading now and go somewhere else. I’m not responsible for the Corruption of Innocents.
When Buster came to live with me, it took him a little while to grasp the basic concepts of physical affection. He didn’t much go in for petting (although he was quiet enough if picked up), he didn’t go in for sleeping on the bed (preferring to maintain a watchful sort of vigil from the sofa), and he didn’t talk much (silence was golden). It took about 5 weeks in my household to undo all of that and turn him into a slutty chatterbox lap-rug with a proclivity for sleeping soundly…on my knees. Or feet. Somewhere in there, he’d catch my lying on the sofa and reading, and hop up to stand on my torso, and start “making biscuits”. You know, that kneading motion that conveys the sense of Happy Cat Feet. Usually with claws out.
It wasn’t too long before I discovered that he had a powerful resentment to being disturbed while making Happy Cat Feet. Dislodge him in the middle of his kneading and he’d turn into one crabby cat.
It wasn’t long after that that I realized he was making biscuits with all four feet and that his tail was cocked and rhythmically jerking in time with his kneading.
Eeeeuuuww. He wasn’t making biscuits on me. He was humping me. Eeeeeeuuuuuwwww. No wonder he got so crabby when his efforts were cut short. Eeeeeeuuuuuwwww.
I told you kids to go somewhere else. It’s not going to get any better, so leave before you read something that damages you forever. I’m not responsible for turning you into a lesbian or whatever. That stuff is genetic – go bug your folks.
Once I discovered the True Nature of the biscuit making, I brought it to a summary end. Eeeeeuuuuwww. No more making biscuits on mom’s squishy bits. Eeeeeuuuuwww.
Thus deprived of his first choice, he went in for the sofa pillows. And when those didn’t deliver the experience he wanted, he went in for my Build-A-Bear. Jeff got me a black bear to keep me company when we were still commuting. Because I am one of the people for whom these things were invented, I promptly equipped my bear with clothing. The togs I chose were a cute little wife-beater t-shirt with a puppy embroidered on it, a pair of red boxer shorts with black puppy paws printed on them and a little hole cut out for the bear’s tail, and a pair of puppy slippers. Too cute!
I loved that outfit…
…until the day I came home from work to encounter the dulcet tones of Buster yowling his way to tomcat bliss (yes, he’s neutered, no it didn’t matter) and discovered him going at it on my bear. He’d gotten the bear on all fours and was going at it from behind and the bear’s boxers had worked their way down to its ankles. It was like Critter Porn. I thought that this vision was Ultimately Appalling…that is, until I discovered that he’d left a Wet Spot.
In that moment, my innocent gift from my darling spouse was transformed into Buster’s Butt Bear. I could never look at it the same way again…especially since no matter where I put the bear, Buster managed to find him again, and I was perpetually confronted with more of the same (above). I’ll never forget the time I came back from a weekend off with my boyfriend and found the cat conked out in the middle of my bed, which was covered with a thin layer of brown bear fur. The bear was nowhere in sight. I found him a day later under the middle of the bed. It looked like he’d tried to crawl away from the assault. That blasted cat turned my apartment into a Bachelor Porn Pad. AND he ruined my stuffed bear.
My husband thought this was all a Great Joke. After the bear died, Buster went back to assaulting the sofa cushions. He seemed to have a preference for doing this during my dinner parties. And my husband had no problem whatsoever with breaking into a serious conversation and directing everyone’s attention to Buster’s rhythmically jerking tail and behind. Not that it was a secret, since the song of the tomcat has long been a subject for ribald cartoons, and for good reason.
In an effort to get this behavior out of the living room and back into the bedroom where it belongs, I broke down and bought him a sex toy. A stuffed sea lion, from FAO Schwartz. It was cute. I felt horrible when I brought it home, like I was sex trafficking. I felt like a degenerate pimp. Buster, however, adored Sammy the Sea Lion, and would enthusiastically molest him 24/7. The only way to get any peace and quiet was to hide the sea lion behind the closet door. Which just meant that Buster spent a lot of time mooning around the door. The cat is a freaking sexaholic. He could think of nothing else. If you went into the room, he leapt onto the bed and meowed like crazy in the expectation of being reunited with the object of his Carnal Lust. If you failed to produce the sea lion, he complained bitterly. If he had the sea lion and you entered the room or approached the bed, he grew wroth. He’d hump that thing and yowl until he collapsed, usually with one paw draped negligently across the sea lion’s neck. He turned my bedroom into a true Den of Iniquity. Eventually, he’d get mobile, and he dragged the sea lion around the house, stopping here and there to consummate his lust once again. I’d hear it: my husband enters the bedroom, the bed squeaks as the cat leaps up, a spate of idiotic babbling – largely featuring nonsense like “Yoooo want Saaaammmmmy? Saaaaaammmmy?” – erupts from my husband’s lips, the closet door creaks, the cat begins to yowl, and minutes later, there is a thump as both the cat and the sea lion hit the floor, and the yowling draws nigh.
The preferred destination for this bizarre parade was always my study. I don’t know why. I don’t want to know why. I just wanted to to stop. That sea lion was getting nasty – balding and crusty. And I was long since weary of the racket. I don’t consider tomcat yowling to possess any intrinsic musical merit.
Unfortunately, my husband has the willpower of a cooked noodle when it comes to facing off against the cat. “Stop giving him that damned sea lion” I’d say. “I”m tired of the racket, and it’s gross.” “OK OK OK!” he’d say. And still, it would be creak thump Yoooooou Want Saaaaaammmmmyyyy? yowl.
I was ready to kill both of them and burn the sea lion. Finally, I settled for throwing it out.
My husband, who hates to see anything go to waste, freaked out when he found out I’d put it in the dumpster down the street…in the sure knowledge that if I merely disposed of it in a household rubbish container, he’d rescue it, dust it off, and start winding the cat up again.
“I can’t believe you threw Sammy away!” he said.
“What else would I do with it?” I asked.
“Give it to charity.” he said.
Yes. That’s right. I’m going to take a stuffed sea lion that is covered with all manner of disgusting feline effluvium – dried spit, and worse – with blown out seams where the cat has been pounding it for the last two years, and bald patches where the fur has rubbed off under the endless frottage…and I’m going to put that right into the Goodwill bin. Oh, yes. Sometimes I am certain that we live on different planets, my husband and I.
We’ve had peace and quiet ever since, thank the lord. Or did. I noticed a few weeks ago that when I went into the bedroom, the cat was once again leaping onto the bed and pasting an expectant look of alertness on his face. I found this…suspicious. And then, one day, I noticed that the fur on my stuffed elephant was oddly matted. That was IT. The elephant does not live within reach of the cat, because I knew damn well what would happen if it did. Therefore, it must have been moved into proximity. And moved back out again. I confronted my spouse with the evidence, and he was unable to make even a token disavowal with a straight face. He’d been sneaking my elephant to the sexaholic cat. He’d been deliberately firing up the cat’s Lust Addiction. And now, the cat’s rapid reversion to the Pavlovian effect was causing him to expect Nooky every time someone went into the room. Oh, my God, I was ready to rip heads off.
I forced an oath out of my sp0use that he would no longer act, directly or indirectly, as a Procurer for the cat. But I don’t trust him any further than I can throw him. No. I am certain that the only reason that the caterwauling is more onerous to me than it is to him is that he has a significant hearing loss in the higher frequencies – you know, the ones that grate on the ear like nails on a chalkboard. The cure for this nonsense is to get him a damned hearing aid. And I’m not going to teach him how to turn it off. Once he hears what it is that I’ve been hearing, I’m pretty sure this whole revolting little dynamic is going to come to a quick end. And if it doesn’t, I’ll just…I’ll just…I’ll give the teddy bear in the Yankees t-shirt to the cat. Watching a Yankees fan taking it up the back from an animal will definitely do the trick.
Eeeeeuuuuuw. I’m not going to provide a recipe or a picture, because I think I’ve already provided more of a picture than any sane individual wants, and a recipe here would just be Too Gross. Eeeeeeuuuuuwww.