or, He’s Going To Hate Me In The Morning
Torvald gets his nuts off tomorrow. I have to get up at six thirty to deliver him to the vet, something I hate too (the hour, the traffic, the strangers in the waiting room, the yowling), but I guess it’s fair to share the grief. He has to go without food from midnight on, and none of it will be fun, but he will be a safer, less hot-wired cat when it’s done, and maybe introductions will go more smoothly.
Robert Anton Wilson once remarked that the difference between politics as practiced by man and the rest of the animal kingdom was that they mark their territories with excretions, while humans mark them by excreting ink onto paper. No one has sprayed around here, thank Goddess, but Fergie’s campaign of slipping into the laundry room to whiz in Torvald’s box has been relentless, and Torvald, finally encountering Fergie’s litter pan at the other end of the basement, promptly returned the favor. Actually he had already defiled an old, nearly worn-out and unquestionably scent-laden scratching pad made of corrugated cardboard which has been at the foot of the cat tree for years. I was carrying it to the dumpster just as a client — an old familiar friend, fortunately — pulled up in the driveway. A veteran of several pets, he took in the situation quickly.
“And this,” I said, “is why the United Nations does not work.”
Maybe we need a veterinarian in the Cabinet.