This Scotch Tastes Like Shit

Let's say I just returned from the liqour store with an obscenely expensive bottle of scotch to toast my victory over my lousy cat. And then, let's say it's evening, the apartment's dark and I haven't turned on the switch yet because my hands are full with liqour and a new giant box of litter sand--the latter an item that I haven't purchased in nearly a year.

As I enter the apartment and set down the box, I cross through the moonlit kitchen to grab my chilled glass from the freezer (yes, I chilled my glass since that morning because I planned this very intimate "wrap" party where I was the genius guest of honor and Lucky was... well, just the cat). I smile to myself as I unscrew the bottle of scotch, remembering how minutes earlier I was at the drugstore skipping down the pet aisle with a box of litter, swinging in my hand like a picnic basket. The aroma of sweet victory tickles my nose hair as the amber waves pour out of the bottle and splash into my glass. I look around me. 'What a beautifully-lit room,' I think to myself, and I decide to stand in the center of the room--a room free of any harmful dumplings that used to litter this very kitchen floor--to have my toast in the moonbeams.

As I'm standing there, a free woman, I think of the words that I would like to say before I say "Salud!" Suddenly, a movement comes from the darkest shadows of the apartment, a very calculated movement that is heading straight for me. In this split second, I feel a moment of sheer terror mixed with certain doubt--but then...

A WARM, SOFT, FURRY FAT BODY RUBS AGAINST MY ANKLES.

And my terror and doubt immediately transform into a nice, warm fuzzy feeling, a feeling that I remember from long ago... a feeling of--dare I say it... love? Love for my cat. I love Lucky. I begin to remember how much I loved my fat pissing/pooping cat. How, when I was in college and he just a lil' kitty, I would tuck him in my coat in those autumn months, and ride my skateboard to my friends on campus to show him off. He would meow this teensy lil' kitty-witty meow from my coat, and dig his teeny-eeny claws into me as I raced my skateboard off curbs, weaving in and out of pedestrians. Or how, when my first love dumped me because he "wanted to get drunk a lot," (I was 21, and still into assholes) the Luckster snuggled next to me as I screamed into my pillow all night long. Or those years, when my mom was really ill, how good a listener the Lucky was and still is during those moments where I need to talk so that the world doesn't feel so lonely...

(I don't know how long I was standing there in the moonlight, saying those three words in my mind "I. Love. Lucky," when something had crept into the air... a very familiar scent... and it began to grow strong and overtake the smell of my unsipped, untoasted amber glass of glory... the memories of my cat and me and the words "I Love Lucky" began to dissolve and swirl like a kaleidoscope in my mind...)

SOMETHING'S AMISS.

I snap out my love-trance for the Lucky. I am overtaken with anxiety and must turn on the kitchen light. I turn it on.

THE FAT LUCK IS NOT IN THE ROOM. BUT SOMETHING ELSE IS. HIS SHIT. ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR. oh--and what's this? oh, it's just HIS SHIT ON MY SHOE. Oh, scratch that--his shit on BOTH MY SHOES.

Apparently, I stood in his shit the entire time I reminisced about how much I love him. Like, I stood right in it, dead center. I rush to the window where the moon had shown through, leaving shit-prints all over my black and white checkered kitchen floor. I want to scream at the moon! I want to curse Lucky's name into the night! But what's this? There is NO moon out! It's my neighbor's new flourescent fly-killing light hanging outside his window that just so happens to shine through my window.

I stand here in shock. It was all so perfect. So strategic. Somehow, Fat Luck made the kitchen look gorgeous when I walked into the apartment. Somehow, he made me feel an urge to walk to the center of the room to raise my glass of glory, but then get distracted by my sudden adoration for him because his rubbing against my shins blasted me into memory lane!!!! Did he have some sort of drug sprinkled in his fur that then got absorbed by my legs, got into my bloodstream, and attacked my brain?! Is it his dander?! Is his dander bewitched with some sort of dark sorcery?! Or is it his mind... does he control my thoughts?! Oh my God--he rubbed against my legs as I stood in his shit!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

In a rage, I take the glass of scotch, throw my head back and swig a monstrous gulp. It's halfway down my throat when I spit it out all over the kitchen. I have never tasted scotch in my life before.

It tastes like shit.

Treasure Chest

Thought I put him to sleep, didn't you. If I didn't envision the victory over Lucky to taste like the best scotch EVER--I'm talking scotch that God kept all to himself--I may have had a 3-second moment where I considered Euthanasia. Not for Lucky. Other way around--I would have asked him to assist me in my suicide.

But I put my trust (and complete adoration for this Vet who only speaks the truth) into Fat Luck's prescribed kitty prozac. And we're just past the 2-month mark of Elavil Emancipation from Emperor Lucky's Poop Nation. Guess what I discovered this morning?

POOP IN A BOX.

It was just another morning for me. Sleepy-eyed stumble to the bathroom (but also alert... remember the Lucky lays out land mines in hopes to destroy all socks I own... and my pride), pass by the litter box on my right (as it mocks me and laughs as a vacant litterbox would), I open the bathroom door to my left, switch on the light, which casts its beams onto the litterbox just outside the bathroom, and just as I turn my head to grab the door knob and close the door behind me... I see them.

5 LITTLE DARLINGS. NESTLED IN SAND.

'My mind is playing tricks on me,' I thought with a stupid smile on my face. I lazily closed the door, but didn't shut it all the way because Lucky has a "thing" about me shut in the bathroom (he belts out really annoying deep throat meows and scratches the door). And the Luck squeezed his fat ass through the slightly ajar door. The door slowly creaks open... and the light shines down upon the litterbox again (say "again" like "agayn").

WAS IT LUCKY TRYING TO SHOW ME HIS LITTERBOX? OR WAS IT GOD COMING THROUGH LUCKY TO SHOW ME THE LITTERBOX?

And yes, there they were. 5 jewels, 5 gems, 5 precious stones in the litterbox. As I peed and stared at the box from the toilet, I thought it was strange how my mind was referring to them as expensive jewelry pieces. Then I thought about how funny it would be if the poopies were glittering like that gigantic mound of treasure in Goonies. Then I thought that rather than glittery poop, it would be so much better if those "stinky lines" would appear above the poopies, you know like how the comic books show us something is stinky? For a moment I saw them, the stinky lines, and with the bathroom light (how poetically ironic!) beaming down upon this miracle, I decided to refer to this former vacant litterbox as a treasure chest.

Now I must purchase a bottle of scotch and see what it tastes like.

Your Cat Was Made Wrong

And yet, he still does cat-like things; playing with his string for example.

The vet remembered me from last year. He remembered the woeful tale of Cat Keeper J.

I had gathered some fun shapes in a plastic baggie so maybe he could run some tests. But he simply said, "I don't need to run tests. Your cat is psychotic."

FINALLY. A vet I can rely on.

"Your cat was made wrong."

If I didn't have a boyfriend, I would have grabbed this vet's face and passionately kiss him.

"I can't believe you still have him. You're a really kind person."

I have been redeemed.

Fat Luck redeemed himself too. All over the table. It was as if he understood English, but spoke only fun shapes because he aimed and open fired on the doctor, fun shapes bouncing about on the examining table....

Well, ok, they didn't bounce, but they definitely rolled around a bit... in the vet's direction.

I left the vet with a two month supply of Elavil, also known as Kitty Prozac. I tried this back in 2003, but all I got out of it was ... was... well nothing. Since my cat seems to be the shittiest cat ever made, the Vet told me I have to wait two months to see some sort of result.

I wonder what the result will be. Perhaps poopies in the shape of a smiley face? Heart-shaped piss patterns on his wee wee pads? Guess we'll have to see.

Poop Dish

*Thought I'd spare you a photo for this entry.

Yeah, I put poop in his dish two weeks ago.

He dropped his shapes right in front of me, so I grabbed him and tried to put him in his litterbox before the circles and half moons came crashing onto my hardwood floor, but instead they bounced off my knees and feet as I was carrying him to his toilet.

I couldn't squeeze him into his box. He scratched me and ran into my roommate's room and shot out a few shapes in there.

While he was doing that, I was frantically trying to remove the cover of his litterbox. You know in the scary movies when the killer is after the girl in the parking lot and she has her keys and everything, but she can't get the damn thing in the keyhole and then she gets wacked? Well that was me, except it was my cat and he was pooping, and I was fumbling with his litterbox.

So of course he was done shaping by the time I got the thing off, but I still grabbed him and made him sit in his box. Did that for like 20 minutes. Let him go and he scurried off to his kitty condo.

Then I put two of his poopies in his cat dish and placed the dish right in front of him as he poked his head out of his condo. He seemed upset, but I couldn't tell if it was because I just forced him to sit in his box for 20 minutes, or if it was because there was two shapes in his dish. It all happened so fast.

This was around 2pm. After a while I put his dish back in the kitchen in its usual spot. But the poopies stayed. They stayed in there until midnight.

Dinner time was confusing for him that night.

He kept walking up to his dish expecting crunchies and instead it was poop. He didn't seem angry, just genuinely confused. I don't even think he realized it was his own shit. He just did this back and forth thing. No meow, no wincing. Just a quick peek, maybe a distant sniff, and nothing.

So midnight rolled around, and I emptied his dish--YES, PETA I WASHED HIS DISH WITH SOAP TOO--and then I put his food in there. He trotted over and ate his crunchies.

The next morning there was poop on the living room floor. So my brilliant plan did absolutely nothing. What exactly was I expecting? Well, it was a good laugh.

I decided to take him to his doctor. You won't believe what he did... (oh the suspense my 3 million readers must be feeling!)

Litterbox Lingo

This is me thinking dark thoughts about Lucky.

I'm obviously failing in my communication to Fat Luck. He has completely abandoned the thought of using his litterbox. Yesterday, my boyfriend suggested that we just throw out the litterbox. But I have plans for that litterbox...

In the past, when the Lucky would have those rare moments of making poopies and pee-pees in his box, I would cheer for him. I would pet him and say in a sweet delicate voice, "Yaye, Lucky! You went in your box today! Yaye for you!" Sometimes I would even give him a little kitty-cat treat. But he seemed agitated when I would recognize his good deed. He would leap out of my arms, spit out his treat, or bolt under the bed in a fit of shame.

That's when I realized that he hates being a good cat and doing good things. He is only happy when he is bad.

Sometimes I get really nasty ideas about the Luck. I'm almost hesitant to write them down here, but these ideas kind of seem like the perfect solution right now. This morning, he left a few fun shapes in my bedroom, on the floor. When I scooped them up, I had an irresistible urge to drop them in his cat dish rather than the trash. I wonder what he would do. I wonder if I have to rip myself from being a civilized human, and start thinking like an animal. What would the Luck do if he found his poopies with his crunchies? What would he think? Would he think? Oh that cat thinks, all right. He plots. He schemes. I decided that I might do this. But I need to be home when I do this so I can see his reaction.

Another thought I have is to put his cat dish inside his litterbox. Or to throw his crunchies in the litterbox with the sand, and throw out the cat dish. I don't really know what kind of message I'm trying to send with this or with the one above. "Don't shit where you eat." Hm. It's a little cloudy for me right now. I think I just kind of want to piss him off and cross one of his boundaries.

PETA might read this and want to throw cat shit in my food. But the Luck has done worse than that, PETA. I mean, this cat has shat on me in the middle of the night, while I was asleep. Four times.

I'm not sure how much longer I can fight these thoughts and urges. Not really sure if I'm even fighting them...

Fun Shapes

They are rock hard. They come in many shapes and sizes.

Remember when you were a kid and your were learning about circles and squares and triangles? How you would take a shape and then drop them in the appropriate hole in that magical box? I used to call them fun shapes.

Lucky's fun shapes are much more complex. And I'm learning a lot more than I bargained for.

The Lucky is quite a little fun shape factory. I'm not sure what happens once he chomps down his food, but he produces a wide array of shapes and sizes that perhaps no other mammals can create. It seems like a very involved process, the fun shape factory. A sort of step-by-step method as his food travels through the assembly line.

1. Strange Meow
He will belt out this unrecognizable meow that actually really alarms me if I'm around to hear it. It almost sounds like a baby... like a mentally challenged one. There will be about 4 or 5 of these, and he usually scampers off to a private area to express himself.

2. Twitchy Lick
He will sit there with this dazed look and suddenly--bam! He licks his tail and nips at it as if something is pinching him. It's a very quick movement, and then he sits again, with a more worried look and twitches.

3. Kitty Olympics
Suddenly Fat Luck feels the hysterically urgent need to run about the apartment. This is not his usual trot when he hears a can of tuna being opened. It's a gallop. He suddenly remembers that he can still jump high and will bounce off of the kitchen counter, my dresser, the kitchen table, and pretty much off the walls. He'll do several laps of this extreme sport.

4. He Disappears
It's very sudden. He just vanishes.

5. The Sound of Fun Shapes
You can hear several of these rock hard objects falling upon the hardwood floor.

6. Kitty Olympics--The Fight for the GOLD
He continues his laps furiously. If it's just two laps, that means he completed his mile. If it's more than that, I have to literally leap on top of him to make sure that a shape is not stuck in his little bucket.

7. The Misshapen
Guess what happens if a shape stops the assembly line--someone's gotta yank that lever. Now just like with any factory line, if you leave your station, you will suffer the consequences. Have you ever seen a fat cat drag ass on your bed? I have. Except it was my bed.

8. The Sight of Shapes
I thought we'd skip the smell part, it's pretty self-explanatory. Although I must say it's a good tracking device. But yes, the sight of shapes is very unique. Circles, half moons, rain drops, ovals, cylinders, octagons--the list goes on. The nice thing, if there is a pleasant thing about all this, is that they are very dry and easy to pick up. There's no crumbling, bending, smearing, or smudging. Just scoop, lift, and drop.

Do I scream at the Lucky for this? I did. But it just doesn't matter to the beast. He's like beelzebub's son, he likes it. So I just scoop, lift, and drop. And somehow my indifference drives the Lucky crazy. So even though he does not stop his biological warfare, I am definitely winning the psychological battle.

My Left Foot

My left foot usually falls victim to Lucky. Look at all
that cat hair.

"I stepped in cat shit," is not a commonly used phrase. It's usually dog shit. Not cat shit. But if you heard someone say this, that they actually did indeed step in cat shit, you would expect them to be standing outside somewhere, like in a field, or a garden, or a litterbox. Not indoors. Not in an apartment.

Not unless you are in my apartment.

Lucky strategically places his dumplings around my home. They each seem to have their own statement:

• In the middle of the kitchen: "You should have given me some of your chicken."
• Underneath the kitchen table: "Just in case you didn't hear me, you should have given me some of your chicken."
• In the middle of the doorway: "You owe me rent."
• Next to his litterbox: "Don't mock me."
• Next to his cat dish: "Oops."
• In the middle of the living room: "I just really want you to step in this."
• In front of the TV: "I hate Project Runway."
• Underneath the coffee table: "Hehehehehe."
• Underneath my roommate's bed: "Only nightmares for you!"

For quite some time I could dodge his mine field. I could practically do it with my eyes closed. But for some odd reason, lately, I have been stepping in his demons, and only with my left foot. I can only only assume that the Lucky calculated my footsteps with the fact that I am right-handed, and somehow came up with the most brilliant layout for his offspring.

I wonder what would happen if I scattered his droppings in areas that he has not yet explored. Or right below the arm of the couch where he usually lands after a nap. Maybe he'd step in his own shit. God. That would rule.