Cat from The Past

I wrote this on Face Book a couple of years ago. Fat-Jack is a cat. He is still Alive. Elsewhere in these pages you will read of his belief in his own immortality, fighting a Raccoon, Fighting Dogs, and generally spending his lives in living large.

This was the first thing I wrote about Him.

He vanished over a week ago. This itself is not unusual, it used to be a common occurrence before the Dog tried to eat him and tore his throat open. We had him snipped and stitched at the same time. He wandered a little after that, but it slowed to a trickle after he got jumped by a posse of Persians and Siamese, they kicked his ass. After that he has seemed to settle down, sleeping on the porch in the dog kennel he commandeered, eating tasty little morsels his obedient slaves (#1 and 2) brought to him, and generally getting fat and somnolent in his dotage. I say dotage because he is old for a tom-cat, 6 human years, which is the exact equivalent to; 6 cat years! I promise, there is not a feline calendar predicting the end of the world, that’s the Mayans, and they’re wrong. I digress, We picked up Wee Jack at my brothers house in Heber 6-7 years ago. His sister came with us. When they were 8 months old wee-jack was cat-napped by a real estate agent. We tracked her down and got him back. But not before she had claw protectors put on. Dang he felt silly, big tough tom-cat in acrylic nails. Poor little guy. But that’s all in the past, far away and long ago.
He vanished last week, leaving not a wrack behind. Remember, this is the cat that sleeps with one eye open. Because of a scar. He is so lazy that he has been mistaken for road-kill. Not just by me, the mailman tried to move his “body” out of the way once. Not my fault that “dead” cats don’t like being picked up by one hind leg and swung like a pendulum. It was not even a very bad bite, and Fat Jack seemed to like the pepper spray..
But this time, he was just gone. For the first day it was a mild annoyance, an empty kennel on the porch, odd but not really. By the third day, we were all a little worried. Well, the GIRLS were a little tiny bit worried. I was nonchalant. By the fifth day, the GIRLS were getting a bit weepy and I had started looking for his body on the side of the road. Monday, we did the round of the shelters, looking at all three of them that steal animals from this area. We pored over the DOA lists, hoping to not find him, but wanting a bit of closure for the kids. Yesterday we hit them all again, and added in a couple of known cat trappers and feral cat feeder types. 

No dice. 

Today, the 8th day since his vanishing act, we decided to give it one more shot. We hit The Humane Society, the County and the City shelter and the nearby vets. Not a hair or hint did we find. As we are coming back into the neighborhood, glum chums all. #1 starts up about this house. She just knows that Jack is there. I am disinclined to check, but you want to be a good dad right? So I hoof it up to the door and bang a few times. No answer, but I do notice an odd aroma, something like the lion house at the zoo. Just for the hell of it I yelled JACK! Instantly there was a loud caterwauling from the garage. It sounded like just one cat, but hey, my ears are broken so I hoofed it to the car and grabbed #1 whose ears work perfectly. The second she got out of the car she starts “I can hear jack!” etc. So then I get the Wife, whose ears also work perfectly. She saunters up to the window of the garage and starts calling “Jack” “Jack” before she could get to the third “J” this furry object comes flying out of the darkness of the garage and splats on the screen next to the wife’s face. Guess What? It’s himself, The Fat Jack. At this point we know that no one is answering, we also know that it’s Jack. His scars, especially the eye, are pretty distinctive. So what’s a guy to do? I smashed the window. Reached in and pulled out Jack. I put the screen back just in time to prevent the other 30 or so cats from pouring out to freedom. Yeah, that’s right. At least 30, all shapes and sizes. The Fat Jack had fallen victim to a cat hoarder. 

The dumb cat.
So, now we are home. Jack is bathed (holy snarking shit!) and wearing a fresh collar. He ate two cans of cat food, farted loudly and fell asleep on the dog. Who seems to be the happiest to see him.
I made an anonymous call to the fascist authorities; they informed me that they have already removed 20 plus cats from this garage. But they will come out tomorrow and look again. Wow, A cat hoarder. So The Fat Jack is safe once again. 

The saga of the fat Jack.

Fat Jack as a a wee un (he was just Jack then)

Fat Jack in his formative weeks ;-)

 ·  ·  · Share · Delete

Spite

I have a motorcycle.

Its a glorious two wheeled expression of freedom.

I ride a lot.

I even took some longish trips astride its aluminium and steel frame. States and blacktop whistled under my boots. A set of tires wore themselves down trying to keep up with the travels.

The cat.

Bear with me here.

We have a few cats. Fat Jack you should all know by now. He is not the only feline to grace our lives with their furry little personalities however.

There is Baby Jack, Blackie, Potty Kitty, (so named because she lives IN the bathroom window) and Fat Penny.

Fat Penny hates me.

She is the semi-feral all evil progeny of Fat Jack and some female kitty. I hope Jack enjoyed himself. The wanton little mac-daddy.

She hates me.

In my defense, I only actually kicked her the one time. To be honest, it was not through lack of trying. She is just too fast for my slow foot to catch. The evil little brute sneaked into the house and made yuck on child #2s bed. I caught her in the act, trying to slink away with a satisfied little smirk on her petulantly fuzzy face.

So I snatched her by the scruff of the neck and punted her into the front yard.

The cat, not the child.

She traveled about 20 feet in the air and true to form and advertising, landed on her feet.

I was so pleased with myself.

My chest puffed and my head back emitting ringing guffaws.

Until I had to clean the yuck. Then I cursed her and wished I had punted harder.

Vile little beast.

I rode up to Canada. With two friends.

Its a really long ways and very scenic. A really great ride. We didn't see a police car. The road was relatively clear and the company was excellent. Even through Idaho and Montana.

I traveled in a sort of slow bliss, ear buds in and the wee little god inside my ipod serenading me about all the good things in life. Focused on the road your mind can only wander so far.

People you care about, things you want to do, to create.

It is a grace. Traveling that way.

Canada.

Its a silly place.

They hate Americans. I don't care for them much either, but the Canadians seem to make a sort of unspoken national pastime out of it.

At the border all they wanted to know, is when we were leaving.

Welcome to Canada! now go home.

They have some Laws there.

Some of them very similar to here. Some not.

Helmet laws here, for example, are lax.

I rarely wear a helmet.

I own several. I recommend them. I just don't really care for wearing one.

Canadian Police folk insist on it however.

So at the border I unstrapped my fantastic full face helmet.

For you rare breed that don't know what this is.

It covers the whole noggin. Face, Forehead and the entire cranium. Even mine, as huge as my head is. (Thank you Special Order ICON)

This is the hard part.

The evil spite that exists in the heart of all things.

Especially kitties that have been punted.

Fat Penny had peed inside my helmet.

As I pulled it over my head and smelled and felt and experienced the foul little beasts expulsion on and around my head. I was filled with regret.

For a week in Canada.

Across the silly nation.

Nothing removed the smell, Nothing.

So regret was my constant companion.

Remorse.

"I should haves" filled my head.

But one rose to the top of every still lake of thought.

I should have had Fat Jack neutered at birth.

I will never drink V8 again

It was the child.

We know this now. At least, I know this now.

The child #2 was to blame.

She was helping.

We were camping and had been raided by evil denizens of the dark, furry masked marauders.

Raccoons.

Every night. they had decimated our food supply and even scattered empty beer cans all over the campsite in their silent semi-drunken debauch.

So #2 took matters into her own hands.

She made a trap.

A coon trap.

None of us saw what she had constructed. From what I have ascertained after long hours of interrogating it was made of a white plastic grocery sack, pieces of chicken, cheese, chicken in a biscuit and two used paper plates. A stick and some string attached with my amazing flame duct tape (SERIOUSLY HOW COOL IS THAT! FLAMED DUCT TAPE!) completed and triggered the mechanism.

We were in the girls tent.

Laying about on cots, making our nighttime noises before sleep.

Mine and wife's tent a few feet away.

Suddenly, a noise outside. A growling thrashing sound.

Some weird squeaking.

Ever alert (right) Mr. Dog jumped up and bolted outside to see what the disturbance was.

#2 Sat upright in her layers of sleepy bags and laughed, like a small deranged tyrant. In the midst of her laugh she said, "It worked! IT ACTUALLY WORKED!"

We sat confused.

The thrashing got louder and the MIL and I ventured from the tent to see what was amiss.

That was when the dog, went from growling to gagging. Really gagging.

Then the little dumb ass furryhead ran back into the tent. And puked. (my favorite part) Right on the MILs sleepy bags.

This is a glimpse of what the MIL saw.

I ran into the tent.

The numbers screaming.

Because now Dog was foaming.

and still retching.

So I collared him.

and dragged him outside.

and he coughed and sneezed and gagged the foam right into my face.

and I joined him in retching.

If you have ever had this experience. I am sorry.

Truly I am.

Smelling a skunk that you pass on the freeway is pleasant.

Compared to this.

bratwurst, covered in sauerkraut, laced with mustard and raw onions, then put into a covered container and baked under a sunlamp for three days.

Doesn't even touch the acrid, chemical, vile, choking effluvium that a skunk sprays.

Dog was Gagging, I was Gagging, the numbers the wife and the MIL were all choking and gasping.

It was awful.

So I dragged Dog over to the communal hose and started to spray him.

The smell got worse.

Other campers started to come out of their tents, and duck back in.

Instant pariahs.

Wife came over carrying all of the cleaning stuff we had.

I dosed the Dog with all of it.

Rinsed him off.

Now he smelled like skunk ass, that had been wiped with a dirty rag.

We argued, what to do?

We discussed myths and legends and facts and killing the dog.........

amazingly, when we agreed on tomato juice as the best alternative.

we were stuck. I mean, Who the hell has tomato juice camping? At o dark o clock?

Insomniac Italians?

The MIL (Mother in law) gets this weird look. I imagine the oracle at Delphi had a similar look when she spoke.

"I don't know what came over me, I just had this feeling, when i was shopping for this trip, I saw it, I hate it, I never drink it, but. I . Bought . A . Whole case............."

At this point I should interject that I had no patience left for the oracular voice.

so i swore, and asked her to please say whatever it was she had bought that she thought might help.

"IBOUGHTAWHOLECASEOFV8TJUICETHESPICYKIND!

Praise to the bargain shopping gods!

So the case was fetched. And dog was covered in three bottles of spicy V8. I even made him drink a bunch, and snort it and for holy hells sake I covered him in it.

It worked.

It actually killed the smell.

Mostly.

Then I smelled me. I smelled wife.

and I gagged all over again.

We got a bottle each.

i washed my whole self with spicy V8.

i almost wish someone would have taken a picture.

I looked just like

this

I will never be able to drink spicy V8 again.

Retold

This story was told to me tonight.

It made me smile.

“Where did you Get those Boots? I really like them”

“Weeeelllllll,

I was on my way from one little southern hothouse to another, the truck was running good and I was feeling great. The South was feeling mighty fine just then. I realized that I needed to stop, drop some water off, and pick up some water for me, and some Gas for the truck .It was a needful  situation and one in which I approved. The convenience store that I pulled in to seemed to be  just the spot, I walked in to pay for my gas and realized two things. One, it was a mite bigger on the inside than the out, 2, it was not just a convenience store, it was a CASINO/convenience store!

I walked right on over to the fun part of the store knowing that may truck was parked just in front. Safe as could be.

 I guess.

I stuck 5 dollars in a spinning wheel poker machine, placed the max bet and spun that little bandits arm.

Straight flush.

The lights started to flashing and the whistles and bells to a ringing. Little lady ran right out of the back room, unplugged the machine and opened a door to reveal its guts. She pulled a little printed ticket out from its innards and I walked up to the payout and then out the door.

750.00 dollars richer than when I had a walked in.

Hopped in my truck and started off down the road.

15 miles later I remembered that I had forgotten water, gas and pissing.

Damn.

So I took the very next exit and pulled into the first place I figured would have a usable toilet.

It was Carlos’s Boot Hacienda, which makes no damn sense in Louisiana but the bathroom seemed fit.

I decided while I was there to treat myself to a new pair of boots, figured a hundred dollars ought to do the trick.

Then I saw these.

I had to have them and they was only ½ of the money the CASINO had just givin me.

Sold.

Then I got emptied out, filled up the truck and me and sashayed right on out of there.

That was, at least my intent.

I remembered that I was heading to my sister’s house to cook some food and light some fireworks with her children for the fourth of July.

So I pulled into the fireworks store and unloaded my over-full wallet on them for half my winnings worth of fireworks.

Watching those kids, light them fireworks, running around with the lit punks trailing embers and smoke with my new boots on the table in front of me.

Best damn fourth of my whole life.

I guess.

Pet Day Part 2

Its taken a month.
26 days or so.
No matter how hard I try I just cant make the rest of pet day sound funny.
It was just too tragical.
The hamster was funny. Especially when Jack started purring and it projectile peed on its owner.
Jacks purr sounds like a broken chainsaw.
The pet little brother was hilarious.
He even had a good repertoire of tricks.
The pretty little cat named Noodle was slightly humorous. Slightly. Very very slightly.
Jack did not care for Noodle. Noodle pretended Jack was a Tasmanian devil.
I felt a little bad when perfect purebred little noodle left a bloody trail of claw marks to the top of its owners head.
Jack laughed.
Really though.
I cant make it sound funny, or happy.
Because it wasn't.
I don't often quote the Bible.
I find it trite.
mostly.
But this seems apt.
What manner of man among you, when his son asks you for a fish? Gives him a stone?
The last child.
Told us all a very long and sad story about how all she ever wanted was a pet.
She listed them all, Horse down to Cockroach.
She also listed all of her parents reasoning, all of which involved money.
Every single reason was money.
Looking at this parent.
All 400 plus pounds of her balanced on a creaking stool.
Money was not really the issue.
The kid was a natural brightsider though.
She ended her lists of woes with a triumphant, "AND THEN! AFTER MANY YEARS, I FINALLY GOT A PET!"
Proudly then, her parent thing flourished from a sack.
A robot.

Pet Day part 1

How do you begin to tell a story that you know without a moments doubt, that no one will believe?

Do you just jump right in and pretend it is some sort of warholish like fiction? Or, do you ease in, like you would into a really hot bath. One toe at a time?

Its a tough call.

Plug your nose kids, its jumping time.

Pet day. SHAZAM! Whomever the genius is that thought up the brilliant idea of a group of 7 year olds bringing their pets to school needs to seek help. Quickly.

I was there, with the Fat Jack. He had gotten heavy so I had placed his bulk on top of the cubby shelf and was busy restraining him.

See, Jack is a rather large cat. Or a stunted cougar. Tough to say. He thinks he can take any canine that breathes. 

For the most part, seeing the various rodents masquerading as dogs being bundled into the class I would agree. There is not the Chihuahua or Pekingese or Toy Poodle alive that could take Jack. However, when the hound of the Baskervilles started roaring inside the classroom I saw Jack look a wee nervous.

When the skinny little white boy with his pretty collection of prison tats dragged a slavering pit bull out of the room even Jack was a bit taken aback. It seemed a bit, shall we say, NOT FAMILY FRIENDLY to bring an obvious fighting dog to pet day. The owner of the Great Pyrenees that it was fighting looked almost angry.

 If the veins traveling down his forehead and neck were any indication, he was near to an aneurysm.

I couldn't say I blamed him, honestly, here he was with his 200 plus pound puppy getting its ass kicked by an 60 pound Pitt. I would have been embarrassed too.

They were fighting around my ankles and legs by now and Jack was asking if I would care to wager on the outcome. It was looking bad for the pyrnees. So, very calmly, I kicked the pit in its swinging sack as hard as i could. I followed that with a stiff push to the chest of meth-boy and another calm kick to the head of the pitt.

My calmness prevailed.

After a few sweet muttered words meth-boy and his loyal canine companion left. Jack flipped a nonchalant paw in their direction, and I sped them along with a calm smile.

Leaving us alone in the hall. Jack, myself, the great prnyese and the blushing owner of said puppy.

200 pounds of goofy dog chose this moment to make friends with The Fat Jack.

It was turning into, bring your too dumb to live animal to school day.

Puppy lurched up on its hind legs to stick a friendly nose in The Fat Jacks general direction. Jack hissed, popped and with a casual swipe, split the damn dogs nose.

As the owner was being dragged into an inglorious retreat he asked me if I had trapped a damn Bobcat.

I sighed.

He really is a rather large kitty.

I was watching the retreat when my eye was trapped by something weird. A back pack, down the hall, hanging by its hook under the cubby shelf was moving. It was swinging back and forth in a very curious way.

A small gap appeared in the zipper area of the pack. This gap was then filled by the snout of a very large rat. Or, at least, thats what it appeared to be.

Until it unzipped the backpack all the way and jumped down. Tail wagging and its giant buggy eyes burning with a self satisfied glint. It was Pepe! The Chiuaha.

 He looked confused.

I was confused.

The school nurse, walking down the hall was confused.

Jack was Bored.

The school nurse looked at me, quizzically. 

At this point her guess was as good as mine. Pepe chose this moment to pee.

I am positive that it actually peed more water then it weighed.

I was impressed.

School nurse was not impressed.

Jack was amused. 

She snatched up the dog mid-shake and marched into the nearest classroom.

And marched right out again when she was met by a chorus of howls, barks, caterwauls and one or two squeaks.

Than on to the next classroom. 

Moments later, she reappeared dragging the recalcitrant owner of the grande escape artiste Pepe to the Principals lounge.

Several very tense minutes passed.

Jack Farted.

The principal came out of the lounge, leading Little girl by the hand. Little girl in turn on her very grubby little hands firmly clenched on the bright pink string she had used for the fat jack.

Justice of a sort.

All this. Before Jack and I had even left the hall.

Our furry friends

 *NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS BLOG*

Except me.
As you may, or may not know, I have a cat. His name is Fat Jack and for the most part.
 He is a bad ass.
He was the first Feline to be Issued a man card.
He likes his women and his food ready and waiting for him.
He sounds like Barry White. (But I am the only one that can hear him)
He had a staring contest with Chuck Norris and not only did He win, he went to Chuck's house after and peed on all of his sunglasses.
Yeah.
Fat Jack is a pretty cool dude.
He got his name because, well, he is fat. 25 pounds of lean mean sleeping machine.
A few weeks ago he Jumped a full size Raccoon.
From the sounds of things it was apparent that Jack had been leisurely eating his midnight snack out on the front porch and Vladimir the coon came sauntering over.

Thats when Jack jumped him.

Thats when the coon got a hold of Fat Jack and bit a coon sized mouthful right out of his ass.

Thats when Tom shot Vladimir.

You get the Picture?
Good.


Cause now a couple of weeks have gone by and Fat Jack is all but healed. He lives outside so I haven't worried too much about the blood clots and dried yuck and coon spittle all over his fur.
At least.
Not till yesterday.
That was when Child #2 informed me that Friday is the "GREATEST DAY EBER!!!!!"
Pet Day.
and she was going to be taking Fat Jack cause he is the coolest most famous cat eber.

So.

He needs a bath.
I had never bathed a cat before.
I have seen movies of lions swimming rivers with little lionets in their mouths, and I have seen the sister in laws Russian Van Kitty happily playing under a running faucet, so I figured it would be simple. Easier than the dog anyway.
I mean, geez, he may be THE FAT JACK, but he is still just a little kitty.
I should have a theme song. Something like "Tom is dumb, he is just dumb, he is really really dumb" and just insert it into the soundtrack during these moments.

I filled the tub up with about four inches of warm water and had #2 standing by with the Johnsons baby soap, perfect for babys and kitties.
Then I grabbed Fat Jack and
pay attention here it goes pretty fast
I tried to set him in the water but those ten, inch long razor tipped weapons of death started spinning at mach 8 or so and his 25 pound body proved to have not an ounce of fat on him as he turned and yowled and spit and snarled and twisted and turned and somehow jammed his paws, all four of them, onto the side of the tub as I pushed him towards the water.
At this point he began to scream for help and his Buddy, my yellow-bellied neurotic IBS afflicted Mr. Dog ran in and bit me on the leg.
Then Jack gave me a little love bite on the wrist.
So he earned a moments grace while I slammed the door of the bathroom with the dog in the hall and me and Jack and #2 in the bathroom. She is still standing ready, holding the soap, giant tears running down the sides of her face.
Because.
I was hurting her Kitty.
Here I thought that the damn cat was kicking my ass, silly me.
So I manned up, looked at the spot where Jacks used to be, and dunked him.
then I held him while #2 dumped the entire bottle of soap on him. I figured, why stint?
I was holding him still with one hand and soaping the gross of off him, all was well.
Then he started crying.
Not soft manly sobs either.
he was wailing, sobbing, heart broken and letting the entire world know it.
#2 joined in, then Mr. Dog, never one to pass the chance, chorused in with Howling from the hall.
This went on. Through the soaping and the rinsing of the cat.
He even continued as I lifted him up out of the water and wrapped him in a dry towel.
At which point he did three things.
Bit me, farted and then started purring.
He lost his man card.
The women are gonna make him do some chasing for a while.
and worst of all.
Late late last night.
Chuck Norris called.
He wants a rematch.

                                                                                love taps