Boned

Guido and I lose our minds a few months ago and take in, in rapid sequence, (i) a young female cat who promptly begins her first heat, and (ii) a young calico mom and 2 of her 5 kittens.  That’s 3 kittens and 1 very young cat, all with complications, joining Bamboo (15 years old), the moron dog, and our two neutered toms (about 40 pounds worth) who spend their time outdoors playing neighborhood pugilist.

The young female, whom we instantly name Harlot, keeps us awake for 4 nights yowling and shredding the screens until she darts out.  By then, every swinging dick in Feline City knows where the party is.  When next we see her, she and some stud are reclining on our front step sharing a smoke, him with a shit-eating grin on his face.  He flees when we roar up, but it’s ‘way too late for parenting.  Little thug.  We take her to the abortion clinic a few weeks later for neutering.

Even before Mom (Cammy, short for “Camouflage”) stops nursing her kids (Chuckles and Rudy), we have her neutered as well.  A few weeks after, it’s the kids’ turn.  Now, of the 7 cats, 1 dog, and 2 humans, the only one with functioning reproductive equipment is me, but Guido keeps close watch on my balls, which she hides in a locked drawer somewhere.  We’re married, remember?

All that as prelude to this:

Tampa, FL  – During this month’s Neuter-a-Thon, one brave cat’s going to cash in big, winning a 12-month supply of food, a scratching post and catnip, plus wine and  chocolates for his owner….The prizes go to the event’s most well-endowed tom, [who will be neutered immediately afterwards].  — TampaBay.com

Gentlemen, strut your stuff.  Here come de judge, tape measure in (gloved) hand.   Don’t be shy.  After all, even the winner loses.

Separately and jointly, Guido and I have dozens of cats on our furry record.  After all these years, surrounded by felines, we know something about the way they make their way through the world, how they scheme, manipulate, and spin the rules to accommodate their own whims and lifestyles.  Both of us know what it takes to get a cat to sprout a stiffy.  But neither of us knows how to measure it without losing a finger, an eye, or a quart of blood.

“Maybe they just kind of eyeball it,” suggests Guido. “A panel of judges hold up placards, like the Olympics: 2.3!  2.7!  and then average it out.  No touching.  Like Naked Firemen On Stage during Girls Night Out.”

Gaak.  Really?  Holy leather jockstrap.  Well, I wouldn’t know.

So they tease these studs stiff with some fresh aromatic poontang, parade them before a room full of cheering strangers, then reward their hormonal performance by amputating their nutsacks.  I think we have here a ritual even more demeaning and less rewarding than electing a metropolitan school board.

And people wonder why cats don’t come they’re called.