Last flight of Cat Cobain

Do I have pets?
Against my better judgment, yes.
I have turtle, a cat and a four-legged catastrophe.
Its the catastrophe that will be addressed in the following.

I've grown to loathe the smell of catshit.
Everybody does I reckon. You're supposed to hate that shit. I'm not that crazy.
Its not like I imagine people sitting in a circle in a dark basement passing around the catshit like a joint.
Okay now, I do, and I sorely wished I didn't.
It was just a natural place to start when writing about my cat.
'Cause he's a shitter, I shit you not.
But he's the Hank Moody kind of shitter.
You hate him, but you can't help but love him.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I gotta start with the important part.
My cat is a mess, he never gives a fuck about anything. He's a like a rude stinky hobo sleeping on your sofa. Single-handedly responsible for making my life a living hell. He's a horrible person, the kind of guy that's utterly and completely useless. If that cat was a human being he'd be a retarded preschool drop-out; a bastard cross between Forrest Gump and the angry bum on the corner, only less Tom Hanks and more No Thanks.
Its that bad.
Cats like him is the reason people bring burlap bags and rocks to bridges.
That said I love the damn thing.
On days when he doesn't stink quite as much and he crawls up into my lap and lets me coam his mess of a fur my life is good. I love that cat, I buy him his food, a couple of toys. Try to clean him when he gets too dirty and fix him up when he's been in a fight. I wish I could hate him, have him put down. Do anything to be rid off him. But I can't. I love him, he's my cat. He's a reject like me.
Only with a slightly worse hygiene.
If I didn't love him so much, he'd gotten a shovel to the back of his head years ago. God knows it was offered to me the day half a dozen bloody little fur-balls dropped out the housecat.
But how the hell do you that? I could never bring myself to club a kitten in the head. Or a baby seal for that matter. If that makes me all kinds of pussy, then I'm fine with that. I happen to be a big fan of the pussy, and the being-of one don't bother me much as long as the dicks keep their distance.
Nah, the kittens got to live, and we found them new homes and happy places. With people I have no idea who are. But they seemed passably friendly, and I assume anyone going to the trouble of collecting a little kitten has to be at least partially capable of taking care of the little runt.
Which is more than I can say for myself.
But people looking for kittens want that cute fluffy furr and the smell of a baby. I hate babies.
Just as much as the people looking for kittens hate the little runt keeping to himself as he shits his fur and doesn't clean himself afterwards. I couldn't give away that cat anymore than I could make the NRA vote Barack Obama.
So I was stuck with the unpopular runt, and figured we had something in common.
It was like in the movies about the orphan that nobody wants. And the moment he hits teenager he might as well just give right the hell up. He's too old. He's not cute anymore. He's a teenager, the monstrous creature that pretty little children mutate into, in the confusing years before ending up as equally screwed up adults.
Living with the catastrophe-cat is anything but easy, he never cleans himself, he pisses in the corners, shits on the floor and eats like a horse.
Its like living with Nick Nolte.

The best thing that ever happened in my relationship with that cat was his testicles dropping. Suddenly he's out and away twenty-eight days a month. And my house smells minty fresh.
I love the damn hairball, even when he doesn't deserve it. Even when he stands a foot from the litter box, staring me in the eye as he shits on the floor. Even as I throw him out the door as hard and far as I can, I do so with love in my heart.
Cause god damn it that's a cat who doesn't play by anybodies rules.
If Kurt Cobain was a cat, he'd be my fucking cat. Come to think about it, they kinda look alike too.
God, I hope that doesn't mean he's been out fucking a cat equivalent of Courtney Love. Nobody should be fucking any variant of Courtney Love. Just saying that out loud, hypocrite that I am, almost guarantees that I will one day fuck Courtney Love. Hopefully while on drugs.
But why the hell not? She's blonde, she's cheap and tends to only sleep with actually talented people, girls got some standards. Which is rare for cheap girls.
Also, she's time conserving. I have never seen Courtney Love do anything for more than ten minutes before showing her pussy. The only quicker way to a vagina is to be a black man in an Asian bar. And not only that, if you fuck Courtney Love, you got every STD known to man in a single vagina. I take that as a kindness, busy man that I am. Not that I have a choice in the matter with a cat like mine.

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, I know I'm happier when he's not around.
He's a wild one that one, out and about in the wicked wilds looking for food and pussy. If you just throw some alcohol in there you got my weekend. I guess we're more alike than I'd like.
Only he escapes out in the wild like a Jack London novel, answering that mythic call of the wild. I usually let that go to voice-mail. My escape is my words, letters and lines. Suddenly I'm wondering if using the words lines this close to the name Courtney Love will raise a flag at the FBI.
But I digress.

Now, my relationship with the cat was greatly improved by his absence. The more time he spent running around the wild, the happier I was. And enduring the smell of catshit or occasional tinkle in some poor corner once or twice a month was not the worst fate in the world. Then the time came for his yearly cut and groom at the vets. This misguided son of the wild found his way home and all seemed well until I actually talked to the damn vet. The guy was a dick if ever a dick there was. And I'm not talking the fat guy kind of clit-sized cock either. This was pure a-grade Tommy Lee anaconda-dick. He couldn't pencil us in until after the holiday, which meant I had to keep the angry bum inside for the week that would take.
God in heaven! A week of catshit in the corner and angry hobo on my sofa.
But the cat looked like he belonged in the wild, his fur a total mess and a cut across his nose, I couldn't in good conscience send him back out on his way. Again I made a wish not to love the bastard. If I didn't I woulda said fuck it and kicked his sorry ass out, hoping he'd make it back to his appointment. But I didn't. I didn't have the heart for it, and instead opted to go with that good old parent tactic of candy-colored bribery. It didn't work. And all I had to show for it was a pissed-of shit-machine demanding I'd open the damn door. I'm pretty fucking sure that bastard started eating and shitting just a little extra only to get back at me.
And what a fucking week it was. Any love I had for my cat was truly tested in the horrors of waking up to a fresh pile of shit each god damn morning. But I endured. Figured if I loved him at his best I should do the same at his worst.
And time passed as time does, and the day came.
Vet-von-Dick had even supplied me with a cage to put angry fur-ball in, and I did.
I hopped the first buss heading into town that early morning, and two steps off the buss I heard the clear clang of cheap metal hitting the ground. It was the door to the cage, laying there in silent mockery of my hopes and dreams. The cage was open and before I could even blink; out shot a flash of orange as the cat embraced the freedom long denied it.

I called, walked and looked but to no avail. I don't blame him, come on! Last time he came when I called I locked him up in a house for seven days. He hates being inside for more than a day and a half, so I get that he's pissed. I really do.
So suddenly I'm standing there, cat long gone and an empty cage in my hand, wondering what the fuck just happened.
I check the cage, eager to figure out why the hell the cage-door suddenly decided to fall off mid-transport. It didn't take long to find the fault. You see, this was one of them cages were the top comes off. Problem is that when you remove the top you need to put it back on just right. There's some plastic pieces that need to fit into other plastic pieces. If they don't the cage won't put enough pressure on the door to securely lock it in its place. And what do you get then?
Orange lightning bum-cat dashing into the day.
Whomever borrowed this cage before me, to the vet's who didn't bother checking if it was okay before handing it out again, allow me to thank you repeatedly. Preferably in a manner that involves my boot and your genitals.

That was the last time I saw the damn cat.
Now I'm laying awake at night wondering if he's dead in a ditch somewhere. Hoping he'll find his way back home. Hoping I'll stumble across him walking through town.
I'm not denying that I'm glad to be rid of him, but it wasn't supposed to be like this.
I wanted the damn cat put into the capable hands of loving and competent people that could help him deal with his shit.
Maybe send him to rehab or some shit.
Now he's out there somewhere, a back-alley cat in the making.
I like to think he's been to town before, and that he knows his way back should he want to come.
But why the hell would he? Last time I saw him he was pissed, not only had I had the audacity to lock him in a house for seven days, I'd stuffed his ass into a small cage and jumped the buss with him. I'm the last motherfucker that cat wants to see about now.

Do I miss his shit? The angry bum on my sofa? No, not so much.
But I do miss him. He'd grown on me. And this was not the happy ending I envisioned.
But I'm not worried.
That cat's more wild than not. And he can take care of himself.
You may call me naive if you like, assuming everything will work out in the end.
Maybe I am. But like House once said, I find it hard to operate under the opposite assumption.
As long as he doesn't get run over by some dumb-ass, I have no doubt that our paths will cross again.
And that path will be paved with catshit and incomprehensible bonds of affection.
And quite possibly Courtney Love's vagina. I'll get back to you on that.