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.

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