In Which We Say Goodbye to a Dear Little Buddy

There’s nothing as satisfying as the weight of a cat curled up on your lap while you sit reading Barbara Pym for the bazillionth time. It’s just the right amount and it emphasizes how cozy the moment is in a cold, hard world.

I was thinking about that yesterday afternoon. Saki was settled in my lap on top of the blanket he claimed years ago. It was a position he and I perfected long before all the odd times of the last decade. The very sweet vet who had come over to my place gave him three injections, 10 minutes apart (morphine, valium, and ketamine, I thought about asking for some of that good stuff, but I was distracted) and Saki got loaded, fell asleep, and just drifted off. That’s how I want to go.

I was very sad that day, but actually, the hardest part was resigning myself to it and then scheduling the euthanasia. Just saying the words on the phone to the receptionist was almost impossible. But he had stopped eating 4 weeks ago. It became obvious the choice was putting him to sleep or watching him starve to death.

Even now I expect to see him somewhere, like he’s been taking one of his naps and wandered back in to see what I was doing. I’ll see something out of the corner of my eye and for second think that it’s him.

Anyway. This end, regardless of how easy or painful it is, is always obvious in the beginning when you take on a pet. The chances of outliving them are very small and you have to know that this is coming. So let’s all take a moment to remember all the ridiculous cats and dogs that have been in our lives and made them better for the time they shared with us.

You Google the phrase “naked guy with cat” and you get some pretty amazing results. To wit:

I know, not naked, but too cute to ignore.

Hard to believe, but the kitten is even cuter than the lanky, doe-eyed beauty

If you haven’t done this with your cat, are you really trying?

“put me down RIGHT THIS MINUTE, or you’ll be sorry”

Not one, but TWO oozy woozums.

I know, not naked again, but the cat is Saki’s double.

Can you pick out the kitten?

Surely if your Grindr profile just read “I have glasses and a cat,” the internet would melt.

Oh, keeses. Many, many keeses.

I think anyone who’s ever lived with a cat recognizes this classic pose of a squirming cat in one hand and something you don’t want to spill in the other and know that tragedy is eminent.

I’m pretty sure I don’t want to see this man naked. The I’m including the picture is the story that went with it which was about a cop who rescued a kitten, much adorbs, and which described said cop as 28 years old. Not to be bitchy, for once, but does this guy look 28? Is that in dog years?

Rants, Rants, and More Rants

So what have we learned from trying the Ice Age Paleo Foods All Tacos, All the Time Diet?  A secret to a happy life is to avoid crappy food that makes you long for Alka Seltzer AS YOU’RE EATING IT.

I stumbled on this room and was struck by a couple of things 1) I could furnish probably 10 – 15 rooms with all that crap and still have a lot of fringe left over and 2) what are the chances of finding your phone or your glasses or last night’s rent boy in there?  And yet, I like it.

My gardener, who is driving three hours up the coast to spend the day with his semi-invalid mother who doesn’t like his boyfriend, asked me today what I planned for Xmas.  I said I was going to take Oxycodone and stay in bed all day.  We both knew he envied me, but talked about pruning the tibouchina and how nice the ceanothus looks with all the little stick dead branches meticulously removed instead.  I still like my plan best.

Saki has decided he wants to live the life of a wild, free feral cat and so has taken to trying to squeeze out the backdoor if I happen go out there.  Since his idea of making a break for it constitutes trotting two feet out onto the patio and then stopping and waiting for me to pick him up and carry him inside, progress has been slow.

It’s my blog.  If I want to insert random muscle butts, I will.  At least until the death of Net Neutrality starts charging me extra for it.  But who wouldn’t pay for pussy like that?

I have taken to shaving only on the nights before I know I will have to leave the house the next day.  Since that is becoming  a rarer and rarer event, I now look like a not very competent pedophile who’s going to ask you for spare change.  You will not give it, and I will scream “Yeah, Merry fucking christmas you cheap motherfucker.”  I  have it all planned out.

I’ve decided to quit complaining about Xmas decorations being flung about starting before Halloweeen and just go with it.  Last year at this time I was in a Houston hotel that’s connected to a shopping center, the decorations of which would cause temporary blindness they were so extravagant.  So this year, avoiding downtown, the decorations seem innocuous.  They’re an attractive enough addition to the local scene; they are, afterall, decorative.  Turns out being a shut-in has its advantages.  The military industrial retail complex and the christians are going to shove christmas down our throats anyway.   Just relax your gag reflex and it’ll all be over soon enough.

There. think of this as my christmas card to all of you from me and Saki, the Evil and Adorable cat.  hugs.

The Spirit of Christmas Butt Plug.

The Terrors of the Hidden World

Have I ever mentioned how my awful sense of smell is?  Awful may not even be the right word, nonexistent is probably closer to the truth.

I have a beautiful pink rose called “April in Paris.” Isn’t that charming?  It’s famous for its intense, heady aroma and friends who’ve seen it blooming attest to that in raving terms.  Yet when I shove my nose right into the very center of the blossoms, I can only detect the very faintest of rose scent.  I am nose blind.  R Man for years insisted boxwood had a very distinctive smell which I never once knew.  We would be strolling through some lovely parterre and he would suddenly demand “Can’t you smell that?”  “Smell what? I would counter.  He seemed to be convinced I was just being contrary.  And then we would be off on one of those on-going squabbles that are such a feature of long time companionship and which spinsters never seem to grasp.

So what are the few things that actually make a dent in my limited olfactory sense?

• the pungent funk of stinky old man B.O.
• farts by people in line in front of me
• cat pee

Which makes it all the stranger that last week Super Agent Fred and I were noodling around  in my guest room, vaguely in preparation of Diane von Austinburg’s upcoming visit (yay!) when he spluttered “Dear god, did Saki pee in here?”

I claimed not smell anything and kept doing so as I leaned in closer and closer until suddenly I was hit by ammoniatic reek.  A dense cloud of it.  Probably took a year off my life, one I really can’t afford at this late stage.

Poor Diane already has plenty enough to put up with in visiting me so I determined to clean the piss up.  I knew that cat piss shows up under a black light, so I bought a small UV flashlight to narrow down the actual site.

It was very much like being in one of those forensic cop shows, but without the terse dialogue and dreadful puns.  Amazingly, even though I was choking on the fumes, nothing glowed.  What?

Since I wasn’t having any luck in the stinky spot, I idly started flashing the light around on the hall and office floors.  Holy shit.  It looked like the aftermath of serial killer’s vacation.  Every single spot Saki has every puked on (and there were an alarming number) shone like a brilliant purple Jackson Pollack canvas.

If you are an animal owner and you are interested in being horrified about your home hygiene, go ahead and try one of these UV tests, although I have to warn you, you will never sleep well again. Years ago, a vet examining Saki mentioned that “cats don’t vomit for no reason.”  I gaped at him, stunned at his lack of experience.  Obviously a dog guy,  Through the many, many cats I have lived with, they have vomited because they were bored, or mad, or because they ran across a spot the hurled on years before and were feeling nostalgic, but I don’t call that reason or excuse.  I think it’s simply perverse.

Anyway, I gotta go mix up a batch of hot water, vinegar and dish soap and attack the scene of Saki’s urine crimes.

Why can’t I have something like this to sniff in the guest room?  Why?

Of Kitties and Poop

So here is the terror of the veterinary corps of San Francisco.  Did you ever?

Who’s the babiest baby in Babytown?

I have no idea what has brought it to mind, but recently I’ve been reminded that one of the worst things about the untimely passing of my dear friend Magda is the loss of the jokes he and I used to share about pooping.  One of us would return from a trip to the restroom and announce in an exaggeratedly mock tearful voice “It was a terrible miscarriage.  I think it was twins.” Or something along the lines of “The good ship S.S. Fajita has launched!”  We were very popular at dinner parties.  Oh, we had ’em rolling in the aisles, I tell ya.  It’s rarer than you might think to have a friend you can not only make excrement jokes with but who has a history of them with you.

Thug Life

I believe I have mentioned the giant red “Caution” marker on my cat Saki’s file at his vet. I thought of it, vividly, sitting in the vet’s waiting room with Saki, wondering who was least happy to be there: me, with my checking account shrinking by the minute, or the technicians, tip-toeing around us, obviously prepared to flee shrieking at the first tiger striped sight of the killer cat, or Saki, ignoring everyone and sulking.

He has a lump that recently appeared on his nose and I just wanted to ask the vet “What’s with that?” and have him assure me it’s nothing.  Of course, the vet refused to go along with that script.  Instead, “maybe” it’s nothing, first we have to have blood tests (of course,) come back to poke a needle into it, and, by the way, clean his teeth.  Why does everything involve teeth cleaning?  No wonder Saki hates that place.

The good doctor hustled Saki in his carrier off to the back and left me to brood over multiple visits and tests while considering how unhappy all this leaves Saki.  Meanwhile, I assume they were playing Rock, Paper, Scissors back there to see who would get stuck extracting the little thug from his bag.  I should mention I asked, very politely, for them to clip his claws and Dr. Pussypants absolutely refused, citing Saki’s “history” with them.

I sort of expected Saki to reappear in a little orange jumpsuit with tiny manacles shackled around his wrists and one of those Hannibal Lecter face masks, but no, even if the woman bringing him out did hand him over with more speed than concern.  That’s my boy, an eight pound terrorist.

So now I’m considering simply ignoring the whole sorry mess.  Saki doesn’t understand the concept of “for your own good” and just thinks I occasionally decide to torture him.  I feel guilty for inflicting this on him.  God knows the only one benefiting from all this is whatever bar the staff repairs to afterwards to calm their shattered nerves.  What a bunch of dicknuts.

In this as in so many things, I have conflicting emotions.  I’m mortified that my cat strikes terror in the hearts of professionals accustomed to giving pitbulls enemas, but I’m also sort of thrilled that my cat is such a badass.

Pussy, but not the kind that scares the vet’s office.  Or maybe it is, I just don’t know.

A Master of Distraction

 So this is the moraine of paperwork on my desk I’d sworn to get to this evening; some of it goes back to December.  Taxes to file, bills to pay, snark to snark.  But first I had to find the camera to take a picture of it and then Saki wouldn’t get off the chair and then I had to go get some cookies and then I remembered that when Secret Agent Fred and I were watching reruns of RuPaul’s season 4 Drag Race, I had meant to find a picture of Fred’s favorite member of their Pit Crew, Shawn Morales.

So obviously I had to get all that out of the way and now Saki is back demanding I make a lap for him to sit on.  Who knows if, or when, any of the paper beast will be tamed.

And once again, Saki commandeers the good chair.  Am I supposed to file taxes standing up?

Super Seven

What do you mean it’s August?  The hell?   How do these things happen?

It’s true I’ve been rather distracted lately by hosting guests for their own wedding and visiting New Orleans on a retail spree and competing with the cats to see who can sleep the most in one day, but that doesn’t excuse missing two important (to me, and who else counts?) anniversaries in July.

The first was Saki, the Evil and Adorable cat’s birthday, his seventh, on July 7.  Yes, 7/7/07 and now it’s number seven, so maybe this year will be lucky for him.  Having ripped up both white leather chairs in the living room, he is now turning his attention to converting the back guest room into a spare cat box, so he’s probably going to need all the luck he can get if I catch him pooping in there one more time.

And my blog, this title piece of heaven, also turned seven a few days ago, but again, I was sleeping, so, oops.  In case you wondering, here is the first post, from all those long years ago:

But who is mrpeenee?
I’m a nice guy, that’s who. I hide it successfully under a mask of brittle bitterness, but I would be happy to save orphan kittys and old ladies from burning buildings if I just weren’t so darn busy downloading porn and staring out the window. My long suffering lover, R Man, and I live in San Francisco where I work for the federal government making wildly inaccurate statements to the press and running the training program for entrepreneurs for the SBA here. I am occasionally surprised to realize how respectable I am.

I grew up in Texas, but never understood what white trash I am until I left. How was I supposed to know nice people didn’t put mayonnaise on their French fries?

I gotta go.

So seven years later and all I’ve learned is how to include photos of muscly young men.  Hmm.

Cats and Muscle Porn; It’s a Gay Life

When Secret Agent Fred dumped his fatuous boyfriend a few years ago, he asked if he could stash his terribly sweet, ancient cat, Asizzi, with me since Fred was renting his apartment out on Air BnB and somehow the listing of “affectionate cat” under the amenities was not working.  It was fine with me, I like Asizzi (I should mention, veterinarian offices are universally unable to handle his name and kept calling Fred up to the counter as “A Sissy.”  Oddly accurate, but sort of confusing, so the cat’s name has morphed into Steve.)

So Steve has been a resident here for all this time and Saki still has not warmed to it.  To keep them separate, Steve stays in R Man’s old room, which sounds cramped, but since it’s about the size of Fred’s studio apartment, he doesn’t seem to mind it, but occasionally will make a break for it.  Fred has been holed up in his own apartment slinging his excellent calligraphy for the tons of wedding invitations that are his bread and butter this time of year.  Exasperated at Steve getting out yet again (he is fast for an old codger) I decided to see how the two cats would get along.

Turns out much better than before.  They’re sort of tense, stiff legged around each other, but a real minimum of hissing and no actual fights.  The amazing part is that Steve, America’s Sweetheart, tends  to be the instigator of any rumpus.  He will occasionally let loose this prolonged low growl and tentatively poke his paw towards Saki who hunkers down looking baffled like “What is with you old man?”  Of course, Steve is so senile it’s possible he thinks he’s imitating a can opener.  There’s no telling.

Also, having Fred out of the house means not just cat acclimation, but Porn Festival!  Not that having the old dear around really cramps my style much since we have separate bedrooms, but still, having the house all to myself is so poignantly reminiscent of being 14 and trying to rub one out before mom gets home from the store.  Whee!

Scrutiny of several new sites as well as some old faves has resulted in a conundrum.  A performer dear to my heart and my right hand has popped up on two sites and I can’t decide which version I prefer.  So let’s vote, shall we?

First, Gianluigi from Men at Play

 So very distinguished and distinctive, don’t you think?

And then a sleeker version from MuscleHunks

Typically I would always go for the fur bearing beast thang, but I have to say, the MuscleHunk scene wherein dear little Gian his spanking his personal monkey and his giant shaved and waxed man tits are rocking gently back and forth is pretty darn mesmerizing.

And those lips.

I think I have to go do some more research.

In Which a Small Cat has a Big Time

I was returning from taking the trash out and in the tiny, tiny window of opportunity when the house door and the garage door are both open, Saki, the adorable and evil, but mostly evil, cat made a break for it.

I gave chase (always such a good idea) but tripped and fell, scratching both palms and banging up my knee.  By the time I had righted my creaking old self, he had disappeared.

I wandered up and down our tasteful and quiet street, making the the little “tch tch” noise that is the only thing he ever pays attention to, but sort of hopelessly.  Our neighborhood has big stretches of wild, open canyon and I figured he was off paying the coyotes a visit, and, really, what are the chances of finding a cat in the dark?

One of my neighbors popped up, a sweet lady who, I’m sure, is not responsible for her Crazy Hair, and offered to help.  She asked what “her” name was, I told her “He probably thinks it’s ‘Get Off the Table’ cause that’s what he hears the most.”  She didn’t seem to get it, so I relented and explained it was really Saki, which she allowed was a cool name.

We shared lost cat stories and she looked around for a while in the most inept manner possible until I finally thanked her and sent her on her way.  I leaned against the garage door, mentally composing flyers:

LOST CAT

No collar

No brains

Answers to absolutely nothing.

If found, approach with caution.

I was already comforting myself with the realization that at least I wouldn’t have to worry about finding to someone to take care of him while I was in New Orleans when he scurried back in, his tail huge, as big around as it can get, so it would seem he had run into some adventures.

Serves him right.  I want it clearly understood I did NOT greet him with baby talk and chin scratches.  Maybe a little.

House Party

Oh, hello, there, how nice to see you again.  I had to dash off to New Orleans last week to meet up with the architect handling the plans of the renovation of my house there.  I was sort of dreading this, in part because my previous experiences with architects have been very much of the “I am an Ayn Rand sized diva and you had best watch out” type of soul withering punishment, and also because I assumed all the ideas I had for revamping the shabby little joint would be kicked to the architectural curb.

Instead, Katherine, Queen of Architects, was supportive and interested, complimentary about my ideas and made all of them work and improved even the most crack pot ones.

So now, demolition is proceeding with speed and my friend Stephen, who is running the project, and whom I think we can refer to as Sister Mary Legs in the Air from now on, is a genius.  He’s very practical and so energetic about getting this crap done, I have to go lie down after watching him dervish around, ripping and tearing and nailing and all kinds of other butch things.

He and my friend Magda whipped up a pair of temporary gates from some scrap fencing in an afternoon.  This was after some riff raft had busted into the house the night I got in town, so some more secure access seemed like a good idea.

I also had dinner with Jason from Night is Half Gone who was down with pneumonia just a couple of weeks ago.  Everyone should go tell him they wish him well, although I have to say the whole story sounded suspect to me.  He just happens to have pneumonia the night my house is burgled and then is up to (not particularly outstanding) dinner and drinks on the town?  Hmmmm.

Anyway, photographic proof:

Before

After.  Or actually, during.  We’ll see about after in a few months.

Also, Saki has sort of tentatively decided the cat tree is not an instrument of torture from the devil.  Sort of.  Yay.