The 2,000 Dollar Cat Penis

People talk heroically about saving lives. I’ve done no such thing; however I did once save a cat’s genitals, much to my father’s chagrin. That last sentence sounds like a cross between absurd and perverted so I’m going to elaborate.

Once upon a time, when I wore the same shirt every single day for a month and never washed it, my mother underwent chemotherapy. It was a difficult time for her and the only creature that consistently brought her joy and comfort (because I merely brought dirt and increasingly large amount of grime) was her cat Splat*.

In between treatments my parents decided to take a mini-vacation. I was living at home at the time so I was charged with taking care of their home and pets. Before he left my father handed me a credit card instructing me to use it in the event of an emergency.

Splat had been slightly ill before my parents’ mini-vacation but watching my parents’ car disappear into the distance pushed him to the brink of death. Responsible daughter that I was, I rushed Splat straight to the veterinarian.

Splat was dehydrated and very sick. The prognosis was grim, there were crystals in his penis and the only way to save him was to cut off his penis, or carry out expensive operation to remove the crystals. Apparently this is a common problem with cat penises. (Or is the plural peni? I don’t really concern myself with the grammatical intricacies of cat genitals.) To top it off, afterwards Splat would eat an exorbitantly expensive food in order to prevent a reoccurrence.

“Well” the vet asked, looking to me to make a decision, “what will it be?”

“How much is the operation to remove the crystals?” I responded tentatively.

“Two thousand dollars” said the vet grimly.

Not possessing a penis, I wasn’t sure of the value of one. In my experience all of the men I met seemed to value theirs greatly. In fact I remembered reading about a man who had fallen asleep on railroad tracks and awoken a triple amputee. Upon learning the extent of his tragedy, the man’s first concern was whether he had lost his member; he was elated that he hadn’t. But on the other hand, Splat had been neutered a decade back, so as long as he was still able to urinate, it seemed that his penis was mostly decorative rather than functional. A bit like a pompom on top of a winter toque. In light of that, it seemed like the obvious decision was to get rid of the penis entirely. Then I thought of my mother’s dismay when she arrived home to discover that her cat was missing a part. I was charged with taking care of the house and the pets, and ideally my parents wanted both to remain as they had left them.

Uncertain as to whether this constituted an emergency but sure that it would end with my mother arriving home to a whole, happy cat, I handed over my father’s credit card.

Two days later, I drove a still woozy but rehydrated Splat home from the vet. My mother hugged him close “My poor Splat, you almost lost your penis” while my Dad gazed in horror at the bill.

It wasn’t rushing a child from a burning building or pushing someone out of the way of a speeding car, but until his dying day, every time Splat groomed his junk, I thought about my decision and was proud.

You can't see his junk, but let me assure you, it was both expensive and beloved. Much like Waterford crystal but with more pee. (Photo Credit : My Dad)

You can’t see his junk, but let me assure you, it was both expensive and beloved. Much like Waterford crystal but with more pee. (Photo Credit : My Dad)

*Names have not been changed because Splat was an animal not a human, also what with possessing the most expensive feline penis on the planet, I feel the world should know his name.

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Hop On Pop

I’m twenty-five weeks pregnant which means at the best of times I feel like a sausage blimp; some sort of gas filled entity stuffed into too little skin.

Picture a zeppelin with a skirt and you have me. Photo Credit : theatlantic.com

Picture this zeppelin with a skirt and you have me. Photo Credit : theatlantic.com

And at the worst of times I’m a vomit fountain.

Which for the record is the opposite of this kind of fountain which can brings scads of people sugar coated joy. Photo Credit: commons.wikimedia.org

For the record, is the opposite of this kind of fountain which can bring scads of people sugar coated joy. Photo Credit: commons.wikimedia.org

And at all times I am tired.

Today the role of Unwashed shall be played by this character. Photo Credit : affordablehousinginstitute.org

Today the role of Unwashed shall be played by this character. Photo Credit : affordablehousinginstitute.org

However despite this, I agreed to go out to dinner with Tex and his friend. The restaurant was only a third of a kilometer from the apartment so Tex decided that we should walk. Tragically, a half an hour beforehand, my body decided that I should sleep. This was how Tex and I found ourselves shuffling along while I kept my eyes closed.

One hundred meters from the apartment I stopped and refused to go any further. “I want a piggyback ride!” I demanded. Sensing that he was a second away from dragging his pregnant wife’s supine body down the sidewalk towards the restaurant, Tex agreed.

 It would have looked exactly like this if Joy was wearing a cowboy hat and wrangler jeans; Tex is just as chipper and I was just as motionless. Photo Credit : infinity.wordpress.com

It would have looked exactly like this if Joy was wearing a cowboy hat and wrangler jeans; Tex is just as chipper and I was just as motionless. Photo Credit : infinity.wordpress.com

I’m not sure whether it was my bulky jacket that made me forget about the giant basketball that is now my midsection or whether I was that drunk from exhaustion, regardless Tex knelt down and I jumped as high as my heavy body and intense acid reflux would allow which wasn’t high at all. I made it halfway onto his back before my belly caused me to slide off and I remembered that I was five and a half months pregnant.

It was at then that I started laughing the maniacal hysterical laughter of the exhausted and was so loud that passersby turned to take in the commotion. Happily, I ended up giggling myself the rest of the way to the restaurant.

Snacks That Go Bang In The Night

I broke into the gun cabinet the other evening. Now before anyone starts panicking about the welfare of my chatty upstairs neighbor, whom I wrote about wanting to terrify for keeping me awake in Robots, Fairies and Cold Blooded Murder, I should state that the break-in wasn’t for intimidation purposes. Although my threat still stands;

Sir, if you don’t stop your three am conversations I WILL perforate a bitch. (Photo Credit: en.wikipedia.org)

Sir, if you don’t stop your three am conversations I WILL perforate a bitch. (Photo Credit: en.wikipedia.org)

No, instead of going out for blood, I was out for cookies. That sounds strange if you don’t know that Tex keeps all of the tasty foods in the house locked with the boomsticks. It’s because I can’t be trusted; if left alone with a family size package of Oreos, there wouldn’t be any survivors and I’d probably have diabetes. Hence why all the delicious things are stored in the place I can’t get into. At least until the other night.

For those of you who don’t sleep next to firearms that are under lock and key, let me explain what a gun cabinet is. It’s exactly like your grandmother’s locked china cabinet; it’s mystical in that its purpose is unclear and you get in a lot of trouble for opening it without asking. Only instead of Royal Doulton figurines there are high powered rifles, and the there are no boxes of silver spoons, just crates of ammunition. Also you likely don’t need ear plugs and safety glasses if you want to take any of the fine bone china out to play. Not that the good china is what Grandma would want you practicing spinning plates with.

How old and priceless did you say these were Grandma? (Photo Credit : www.jollygoodperformers.co.uk)

How old and priceless did you say these were Grandma? (Photo Credit : http://www.jollygoodperformers.co.uk)

Tex was out skeet shooting with a friend and had taken only his apartment key with him, leaving his key ring unattended. I was home alone, all was well until it was nine pm, and I needed a hit of Mr. Christie more than anything. I stared down the locked gun cabinet. I knew better to try and shake the metal crate as though it was a stingy pop machine that refused to relinquish the goods because just like with Grandma’s china cabinet- if you shake or tip it, things could start exploding into pieces.

That was when I spotted Tex’s keys. The night went downhill from there. To start with there were no cookies. Only shot gun shells and spare hearing protection. Disappointed and feeling somewhat like I had opened Pandora’s Box, I went to lock the cabinet and it wouldn’t close.

“Oh no!”I thought “Now the guns can escape!” Firearms are wickedly dangerous. After firing a gun for the first time, rather than being reassured of their safety, I was more scared. So I closed the door as much as I could and replaced the hamper that stands in front of it. The keys dangled from the still open lock. “The guns are stuck in there” I reassured myself, “they can’t get out”. But just to be sure, I left the bedroom and closed the door behind me, vowing not to return until Tex came back and locked the dangerous boomsticks up again.

A while later Tex arrived home and started to get ready for bed. I stayed in the other room, just in case the unlocked guns tried to make a run for it. “UNwashed” Tex said my name in an outraged way, putting the emphasis on the first syllable. I knew I was in trouble.

Hearing the jiggle of keys, I knew it was safe to enter the bedroom to explain, “I thought I could unlock and relock it.”

Tex glowered at me “That wasn’t an apology. That’s like someone standing in front of a judge saying “Your honor, I didn’t think I was going to get caught.”

“I’m sorry” I cried full of repentance “As soon as I saw there were no cookies, I knew I had made a terrible mistake.”

This is why there is now a sealed combination lock box to get to the gun cabinet key, that unlocks the gun cabinet which holds the firearms and the yummy treats, because I was only sorry after realizing that there weren’t any tasty snacks. Tex reminded me later that even IF the guns did get out although they aren’t liked caged, angry hippos with minds of their own; there is a combination lock on each trigger.

What I pictured the firearms version of a prison break to look like once I had opened the gun cabinet. (Photo Credit commons.wikimedia.org)

What I pictured the firearms version of a prison break to look like once I had opened the gun cabinet. (Photo Credit commons.wikimedia.org)

Fornicating in Church Basements and Other Activities Jesus Frowns On

I’m a bad Christian. I’ve come to accept this fact after I’ve shown up partially dressed to church not once, not twice, but so many times that I stopped writing about it. As well, I’m a lackadaisical Sunday School teacher at best.

The Great Unwashed charging into the church basement one minute before the service bellowing “Am I teaching today?”

Sunday School Coordinator calmly “I don’t know, did you check the schedule?”

The Great Unwashed “There’s a schedule?”

We won’t even talk about the time that I lost one of my Sunday school students during an epic game of sardines.*

The fact the matter is; I’m just not good at the whole church thing. So last Sunday found Tex and me all but sprinting to church because we were late which is fairly standard. Our run paid off though, because we arrived outside of the building just as the service was supposed to start. I yanked on the ancient metal and wood door, ready to sprint the rest of the way up the stairs, to find it was locked. Surprised but undaunted, I ran to the other door and pulled. Also locked. That was when Tex and I read the paper taped to the door- “For the month of September, services will be held at the church down the street.”

“What the hell?” I cried. Yet another reason why I am a bad Christian; I say words like hell while trying to break into locked churches. “You’d think they’d have posted that on the big sign by the road” said Tex. That was when we read the giant, neon sign sitting by the road, next to the church “Come and join us down the street during September”.

Cue Tex and I slowly strolling down the street, because once you’re late, you’re just late.

We walk into the foreign church to discover that it was “Activity Sunday”, we could choose from a Bible study, making stained glass or helping prepare a meal for the homeless. This flurry of activity was preceded by a short sermon and hymn that we had missed while trying to break and enter into the other church.

Normally I would have chosen to prepare a meal, but people were piling into their cars to meet at a separate location to cook. It’s one thing to walk in late to a service, it’s a completely different form of rudeness to be all like “Hey, so I just got here, I’ve never met you before, but can we catch a ride with you? Oh and you’ll need to drive us back afterwards- thanks.”

Given that I have no patience for kitschy crafts that left the Bible study. I knew I had made a mistake as soon as I opened the door to the slack-faced, dour man in a soiled white robe. It looked as if his skin was slowly sliding off of his visage, possibly from age, but most likely from boredom- his skin was actually trying to escape. He didn’t acknowledge Tex or my presence. We were the first ones and quickly pulled up chairs across from the man in the silent room. Then we proceeded to study our fingernails while the oldest living people in Canada filled the seats around us.

What followed was the most dull and long thirty minutes of my life, which was filled with disjointed opinions on the Bible, half developed lectures on obscure topics like; James, Jesus’ brother or heresy? and the various ways to keep a kitchen kosher (admittedly that one would have been interesting if I hadn’t already been informed on the topic). These short, disorganized discourses were interspersed with long periods of silence. So I chose to focus on the silver lining; Tex.

Tex, was and is the most handsome attractive man I’d ever met. Whenever I am bored or disheartened, I look over and there he is; my cowboy hottie with a body. That day however, the sight of his chiseled, square jaw and piercing green eyes wasn’t enough to drown out the monotony of random facts about ancient Rome, I had to touch him. I reached a hand out and caressed his ear. I may have run it down the back of Tex’s neck.

I thought I was being subtle, but to hear Tex tell it, I was all but climbing onto his lap and straddling him, while the slack-faced soporific speaker stared with an increasingly shocked look on his face.

Me in church, according to Tex (Photo Credit : youtube.com)

According to Tex this is me in church. (Photo Credit : youtube.com)

Eventually the three thousand year old people seated around us realized that the man would likely continue talking until they died and possibly even after that, so they started murmuring things about cats to feed and early bird specials then made their way to the door. I may have tried to break Usain Bolt’s record for speed in my rush to get out of that church and away from the random ramblings masquerading as a Bible study.

I can now add attempted B&E into a place of worship as well as inappropriate touching in church to my list of reasons why I’m glad forgiveness is a basic tenant of the Christian faith.

*Sardines is the opposite of hide and go seek; one person hides and everyone tries to find them. Lifehack : Never pick the clever, small, flexible children to hide.

If you would like  to read more about my antics in God’s house please click on

Clothing is Over-rated, Especially in Church

Deadly Wolverine Mornings

I am a creature of habit. When I am taken out of my routine for any reason; trans-Atlantic trips, long car rides, late nights, the consequences can be serious for myself and others. This is what happened when I stayed up way way way past my bedtime on Saturday night.

I woke up on Sunday morning and all but shouted the word “No!” because I was so cross to be conscious which was surprising because I generally look something like this in the morning.

“Oh good morning my avian friends! If you help me dress I shall sing and bring you joy, as well as bird seed!” (Photo Credit emaze.com)

“Oh good morning my avian friends! If you help me dress I shall sing and bring you joy, as well as bird seed!” (Photo Credit emaze.com)

Sensing the imminent danger, Tex fled the room. Normally I hop out of bed, raring to start my day; tackling dishes, cooking elaborate breakfasts, possibly penning a couple of nonsensical cards to family members.

“Dear Family,

Mornings are amazing and beautiful! I’ve decided to cancel the night, please write back and tell me how you feel about this.

Much energy,

The Great Unwashed”

But not this morning, instead I curled the covers around my head protecting my already hot self from the sound of an irritatingly awake world. “I am grumpy, possibly forever” and I concluded that I would stay in bed, possibly forever.

“I am no longer a person”, I thought to myself, “I am a wolverine, I shall bite the wrist of anyone who tries to extract me from my wolverine hole. Not a terrible tendon severing bite but a show of power bite, using only enough force to make them leave me alone.”

How badly do you want me to get up? (Photo Credit: animalfightclub.com)

How badly do you want me to get up?
(Photo Credit: animalfightclub.com)

I stared at the wall, contemplating whether I should sharpen my newly feral teeth on the wood paneling when the need to pee made itself obvious and my train of thought changed slightly. “I am an untamed wolverine with excellent coordination, when I can no longer hold my bladder; I shall pee into one of the water bottles next to the bed so I can remain in my wolverine hole forever.”

I lay still a while longer thinking snarly wolverine thoughts about roaming the forest alone and eating badgers, but then my stomach growled. I ignored it. Apparently taken with the whole wolverine idea, my stomach growled again but louder. I stayed firmly ensconced in my angry, over-heated pile of blankets. “I am a super model wolverine” I thought, “Desire for nourishment is nothing. All the other wolverines wish they could ignore their hunger and bodily functions as well as me.”

I might still be in my wolverine hole if Tex hadn’t reappeared in the room and instead of pulling me from my mountain of blankets, hugged me and asked whether I wanted coffee.

Neither wolverines nor grouchy Unwasheds can resist coffee, so I got up.