A Cat In Heat

Years ago I separated from one of my long-term girlfriends. We had been living together just shy of a year, and most of that was spent fighting about…well, just about everything. She packed up her stuff (and some of mine) and left, leaving only her cat. The cat was happy where she was, and it wasn’t the cat’s fault her real owner was a slightly unstable…I’m trying to think of a nice way to say psycho bitch, but nothing is coming to mind. Point being, I ended up with the cat. In the long run, the cat turned out to be the best part of that relationship. Better conversation than my ex, didn’t want to go out as much, didn’t smoke my cigarettes, and yelled at me a whole lot less. Over all, the cat was way easier to live with, right until she went into heat.

Having had mostly male or out door cats when I was a kid, I didn’t immediately notice the change in the cat’s behavior. Yes, she was wanting to be petted a bit more and was scratching the furniture less, but I thought it was just her out growing her kitten habits. What really gave it away was a few days later when the nonstop screeching started when her hormone’s kicked in. Not having the funds to get the cat neutered, I had to try and find another method of helping her deal with the changes in her body.

I tried reasoning with her, “You know, when I hit puberty, I was horny enough to fuck a brick wall. In fact, I think I tried it once, but that’s beside the point. As horny as I was, I didn’t go down to the breakfast table and scream and cry that I needed me some. Mostly because I was scared my dad would take me to that place he took my brother, who says it still burns when he pee’s. While I’m sympathetic to what you’re going through, shut the fuck up.”

It didn’t work; she still meowed at the top of her lungs. I decided to go the route my mother always did with me, ignore the problem and hope it works itself out or eventually runs away from home. I tried to stick to the plan, figuring if I wasn’t giving her attention eventually she would shut up. Around four in the morning, after listening to her for ten straight hours, I realized ignoring the problem wasn’t going to work.

I opted for my dad’s solution. I gave the cat a porn magazine and some q-tips and let her have some privacy while I went outside and had a smoke, hoping she’d take care of her urges herself. Didn’t happen. I ended up going to work the next day with maybe two hours of sleep.

As I did the following day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Four days in I was a mess. Soon realized that if I was at home, I would be listening to the cat shrieking. Tired of hearing it, I headed up to the coffee shop I hung out at, red eyed and unshaven.

“Why are you here Johnny?” Asked the barista, “You normally don’t come up on Wednesdays.”

“Same reason I’ve come up here for during the past year. There’s a female in my apartment who won’t stop screaming at me and I need some time away from it.”

A friend of mine joined me, mentioning that I looked horrible – because that’s what guys do. I agreed, I looked horrible. We started talking and I was having a hard time following the conversation, fatigued from lack of sleep. I pull the cigarette out of my mouth to ash it. Right about then, my nose starts to itch, so I reach up with my free hand to scratch it. About the time my hand hits my nose, I scream and start flailing around.

Why? Keep in mind I had been up for nearly four days with almost no sleep as we reexamine the scene. I was so tired that when I used my right hand to remove the cigarette to ash it, I didn’t notice that I hadn’t gotten a good grip on it, leaving the cigarette still hanging from my lip, as my right had was actually holding nothing. When I brought up my left hand to itch my nose, the cigarette was in the way, so I basically shoved the cigarette, burning ember and all, right up my nose.

It hurt. Bad.

I excused myself (after I stopped screaming), went home and applied burn cream to my nose and spent the night not sleeping – listening to the cats howling.

At that point, not having the funds to get the cat fixed became less of an issue. If I was ever going to sleep again, I needed to get it taken care of. So I started calling around, looking for a vet who was in my price range.

“We charge three hundred dollars.”
“Three hundred dollars!”
“Yes sir, we use a local anesthetic to make sure your pet is comfortably resting while we perform the surgery. Afterwards, we…”
“I was clear that this is for a cat and not my girlfriend, right?”

From there I did what anyone in my position would do. I decided to perform the operation myself. How hard could it be? I got a pair of salad tongs, a wrench, and some duct tape - but was unable to find a copy of “Fixing Cats For Dummies,” so I had no choice but to continue looking for a reasonably priced vet.

Eventually I found one, got the cat fixed and was able to sleep again. The moral of the story, of course, is – don’t ever put a cigarette out in your nose. The skin there is very sensitive.