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Kitten Of Evil
May 5, 2009 | 
Author 
by Jonathan B. Perry
My cat Callie lived to the ripe old age of 16, which means that in human age she was already the equivalent of a super crabby, frail, old lady, obviously near death, except that she still had all her teeth and wasn’t afraid to use them on you. There is wisdom in removing the teeth of the elderly. Hours of fun playing Hide and Go Teeth. Even though I might have been gently petting Callie, she would freak out at any moment and decide to use me as a hunted chew toy/scratch post. As much fun as this was for me, pain and scarring usually overrode and reminded me that my cat really was some evil demon spawn who was perhaps rabid or at least incredibly insane. I tried to placate her by bringing her good toys, couches and chairs were her favorites, but she seemed to like the taste of human blood better than polyfil. Her best periods of non-psychotic behavior were mostly when I came home at the end of the day, where she’d let me pet her for a few minutes in exchange for following her to the food bowl so I could fill it to overflowing. This was a joyful, if brief, moment. After that, it was pretty much Tourette’s Tooth Kitty.
I did love my cat, though. Callie, a name that is embarrassingly the most common for a calico, had been in our family since her early cathood, but didn’t come specifically to me until the great family diaspora a few years back (I named the previous family cat Gregoria, but she liked to play in the road. That didn‘t work out so well.). Callie’s acquirement was odd for me, since I have enough trouble taking care of myself on a cold and windy day (honestly, I’m much better). Growing up, she’d been a doll. Even in between the later cat crazies, she could actually be a real sweet little beast.
Callie and I had a good symbiotic relationship where I fed her and cleaned up after her vomitings and other digestive misfirings in return for someone to talk to other than the mean woman in my head that tells me I suck. If she was especially sick (the cat, not the mean woman), we’d play the exciting home game called “Guess Where I Puked”. I never really won that.
My brother Jay has decided that if he ever gets a cat, he’ll name her Pandora, so she can use Pandora’s box. He’s so clever. Of course, cleaning a cat’s litter box is like being on an archaeological dig or panning for gold, but it‘s never a pleasant excursion and you don’t really want the treasure. I’ve mostly overcome the gagging. These events and the abuse from the cat have even inspired me to write thoughtful odes such as “Kitten of Evil” and “Gata Sacrificia”, though she wouldn’t have been impressed even if she could have understood the thoughtful lyrics (the humans aren‘t so impressed either).
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Men Without Cats
by Jonathan B. Perry
I take umbrage at the idea that there’s something ‘funny’ about single men with cats. That’s utterly preposterous. If you consider that cats are more like women and dogs are more like men, it would only make sense that dog-men cope a little too well with other ‘men’ when they should be learning to cope with women by way of cats. How is a cat like a woman? Evil. No, just kidding! Haha! You know how you reach out to pet a cat when you’re sitting at a slight distance? At some point the cat will get comfortable and maneuver to just be out of reach, though seemingly still interested in the petting ceremony. You can tell that the cat still wants to be petted or at least looks anxious to be petted, but then you think to yourself, “Does the cat really want me to work harder to come to her?” “Does she not want me to come to her?” or “Is she mocking me?” or “Should I buy her jewelry?”
When my cat was alive, I’d find myself superimposing feelings of frustration for women onto her, which was pretty useful. I could have an imaginary argument with my mom or sister-in-law and manifest it live through interaction with Callie the calico kitty. For instance, in the absence of proper mental therapy, I might perceive a rough cat meow as the nagging beseeching of my mother, whereupon I’d presume to tell the cat where she could stuff her guilt trip (just an example, mom).
This could in itself be a fantastic therapeutic device, because I’d feel the freedom to talk back without the normal consequences of human retribution (silent treatment). Not only would this make the cat a woman, but a therapist as well. Maybe a female therapist. How exciting.
(Wow. That’s a lot of cat art. I’ll totally have to write some now about sports or testicles or something masculine because the site has been suddenly overrun with cats & glamorous ladies.)
(Thanks to my brother, Jay Perry, for the ‘No Cats’ art. And for doing ‘The Safety Dance’. Do it now!)
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Subscribe to the Domesticated Bachelor through RSS or link to one of the buttons below! Do it!
My Bachelor Pad
by Jonathan B Perry
In accordance with my own steps to becoming a Domesticated Bachelor edict, # 1 The Bachelor Pad, I bought a house in October. 
It’s my first house. The house is younger than I am with a new non-leaking roof and new furnace and a/c. I like it, especially the French doors and the yards, and I hope to do some minor remodeling and landscaping. Until recently, I lived several years in a run down basement apartment that flooded and whose retaining wall to the porch was crumbling. I dreaded a dark morning where I might wake up to find I’d become trapped in my subterranean tomb with a very limited supply of chocolate ice cream and cookies to carry me into the afterlife. I’m sure I have a photo of the wall somewhere, but can’t find it and don’t really want to creep around the property now to photograph it with my phone.
So far, the new house is a bit messy, not being quite unpacked, but no where near as dreadful as the old apartment. One of the benefits of maintaining a filthy place is that it keeps you from mistakenly inviting visitors over. No one wants to do that. Visitors will only make your house dirtier, consume your 
resources, and still judge your house/apartment regardless of how spic and span it is. I know this factually because I have friends that popped in at the most inopportune times, such as when I was moving the cat’s indoor sand volleyball court from the kitchen to the bathroom. Since then, the legend of my squalor has traveled the circuit of acquaintances and developed a fantastic mythology that has winged serpents crossing the threshold to hunt rabid country-city-suburb mice (which is quite nearly a falsehood). With the apartment all to yourself you can live free of the many encumbrances that might somehow cause you to forget to feed the cat who might die unfed while you’re entertaining judgmental guests. No one wants to risk the beast’s life for the sake of hospitality, unless you actually have a cat and are truly aware of its inherent evil (my cat is already dead, so that’s no longer an issue).
If you do happen to have friends, which I have in the past, you might find it easier to do your socializing at their residences. Often, first rate entertainment is provided and, depending on the friend, there may be pizza or casseroles involved. This is good because in addition to the free nourishment and socialization, you’ve avoided causing any excessive buildup of filth in your own quarters, instead causing it in the quarters of those who can either fix it or just don‘t care. In this way, you may be able to stave off moving for just a little longer without having to clean. Or get married. Vacations are also good to this end.
The secret word is subterranean.
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