Confession of Retardation, Part 138 of Many

I've come to the conclusion, after wandering around outside in my bathrobe at 5 in the morning searching for kittens, that I am not a cat person. I am a Jax person. Jax is an awesome cat, and I love him, and he is orange, and I think that since it's unlikely I'll be able to find another Jax ever, once he dies, eventually, at the ripe age of 350, God willing, I will have him stuffed and become one of those old ladies who wander aimlessly around town gently petting their beloved taxiderm. (Taxidermy? Taxiderm seems like it would apply to like, the single pet, but while I'm at it I could potentially amass quite the collection of barn owls poised in flight and beavers gingerly gnawing on petrified wood.)

Some of you may have noticed my posts regarding "KITTENWATCH 2007!" which almost immediately morphed into "Kittens? What kittens? There were never any kittens. I totally didn't make a graphic illustration demonstrating what I believed said kittens would look like, and I also didn't give them names before they were born. There was never going to be a kitten named Sunny Muffins. All of you are full of LIES, let's just FORGET IT."

We thought Matilda was pregnant. Now. I've spent a great deal of time feeling like the biggest event-naming, graphic-creating R-tard ever, but Matilda giving birth to kittens really did make total sense. The fact that the shelter said not to get her fixed until after Christmas, because cats don't go into heat during the holiday season (Presumably because they are too busy celebrating the birth of Jesus and drinking eggnog -- totally understandable), the fact that she was eating ALL THE TIME and fighting Jax almost to the death whenever he tried to grab a crumb of food, weight gain, nipples, delicate straining -- KITTENS.

But no. Not kittens. That doesn't equate to kittens. Apparently that equates to Matilda going into heat, jumping out the upstairs bathroom window, taking a six foot drop to the ground and then tagteaming the entire un-neutered cat population of the Masset.

I was positive I would wake up in the morning and find the lifeless little corpses of Sunny Muffins and Dutchess Amelia and darling wee Untitled Kitten Number Three, which lead to me waking up at every hour of the night to look outside, in my bathrobe, wandering around the garden like the crazy woman I was sure I'd have at least ten years to grow into.

And cats in heat are gross. I can think of at least a million things I'd rather see around the house than Matilda's big, lubricated vagina. Listen to Bob Barker, Internet. Even at Christmas.

Labels: Adventures in Babysitting