Inktober – Exhausted

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The Perplexing Puzzle of the Purloined Plums

Charleston P Buttcat (Esq)

I took my furry companions in to the vet to be snipped this morning. I did not want to do it particularly, despite understanding why it’s important (too many rescue kittens, feline AIDS, antisocial cat behaviour etc). We’d put it off because we wanted Charlie Cat to be a ‘proper’ cat. That is a no-bullshit, fully-grown tomcat. Plus he’s such an awesome cat he should have the opportunity to sire some kittens.

So, after a bit of a fight (I only lost two feet square of skin and one eye) both cats, Nik and Charlie, were safely secured in their respective carriers and off we went to the vets with a chorus of yowling. All the way there I harboured a sense of deep unworthiness. I was betraying my dudes.

We get to the vet, fill out all the forms, have a nice chat with a vet assistant from the village and then take the boys in for their pre-flight check.

Consternation.

Charlie’s nards are nowhere to be found.

Are we sure we didn’t have him done?

Yes.

Are we sure he wasn’t done when we got him (8 weeks old). We’re sure, but we call the lady we got him from (my mum’s cousin) to check. Definitely no, that’s too young to get them done.

Does he act like a tomcat? Yes. He ranges far and wide, he hunts a lot. We’re pretty sure he’s sired kittens and while we don’t go regularly checking our cat’s genitalia we’re pretty sure we remember him having a pair of black, furry walnuts back there.

Vet goes to get a second opinion. That vet can’t see any balls either.

They both feel up his belly in case they’re undescended (this can happen, but is rare, and double undescended testicles is almost unheard of). Can’t feel anything in his belly to suggest retained nads.

Charlie suffers the indignity of having his genitals shaved as the quest for the golden balls continues.

Nothing. We do find what could be a well-healed scar, though the vet isn’t completely sure.

The possibilities are as follows:

1. Charlie Cat has an incredibly rare medical condition where his testes are internal, but none of the vets can feel them in there with a touch exam.
2. Some motherfucker kidnapped my cat and, without my consent, had him snipped.

Given the only option to settle the issue was expensive and dangerous exploratory surgery I elected not to go ahead and brought him home.

I’m making a bit of a joke of it here, but I’m actually super upset. We made an informed and conscious decision not to have him snipped and it appears some bastard decided they knew better. He’s unlikely to have been picked up as a stray since we live out in the country and there’s no farm-cat colonies around here any more (and there haven’t been for some considerable time). So someone in the village took it upon themselves to do this to my cat, my friend, muse and companion.

Nikopotamus Q Needleclaw (OBE)

Why didn’t we notice? I’m not in the habit of checking my cats’ genitals, plus Charlie has pretty thick belly and butt fur that covers him up a bit.

Charlie has obviously been violated (this must be what alien abduction ‘victims’ feel like) but I also feel violated. It’s not unlike the feeling of being robbed or of a friend being beaten up. Someone has invaded something or someone you love and done harm to them. Violated their personal sanctity.

Nik’s still getting the snip though. Go back to pick him up this afternoon.

Poor little sod 😦

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The Cat

The cat who saved my life glowers at me from behind the curtain, the blinding sun at his back giving him a halo.

His amber eyes stare at me, narrowed on both axes, but do not deign to blink.

His nose is out of joint because of the kitten, whom he  – commander of the house – only tolerates.

He yawns, flashing the snaggle-tooth that hurts so much when  he bites.

The worst is yet to come.

Soon he will pay a ‘special’ visit to the vet – another consequence of the young blade that has joined our household and usurped his laply throne.

I couldn’t voice what is to be done to his fuzzy plums, waving my hand and making a snipping motion with my fingers.

It is the responsible thing, the right thing, the safe thing, the convenient thing…

…but to do to a pet what one would never do to oneself?

For the sake of an easy life?

The cat who saved my life, hunter of moles, home to fleas, he of the chipped tooth and unclipped claws.

Panthera tigris minimus, with coffee-stained chin and offset nose, fur of petrichor redolence.

The Alarm clock, the hero, the saviour, confidante, muse and master of the gardens.

Is he to be reduced to the state of a simpering eunuch?

This feline who, every day, gives me reason to get up, gives me love and affection.

This furry beast who – with touch of paw, push of head and raucous meow, the likes of which I’ve never heard again – broke into a closed room to save me.

Would he do it again for me?

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