Heroic Rabbit Isn’t So Lucky…

Fire in the Master’s House is Set (9/2011)

When I first got my cat Doyle, he got into some trouble in my garage. He was about 5 months old at the time, when he made his way into my garage and started playing with/attacking a fishing pole (not mine of course). Needless to say, the hook got caught up in his paw padding and he tried to run. But the hook was attached to the line, which was attached to the fishing pole. He was not strong enough to move the entire pole.

The Day That Fish Died…

My friend had a fish in her office once. As I visited her, I took notice of it. “Fish looks miserable,” I commented. “Yeah,” she said, “he certainly does.” I stared at it for a moment. “How about I take it home with me?” So I took it home and placed him near a window, where he would see outside for the first time in his life, as his old home was one which contained no windows.

He was a good fish. Never did come up with a name for him though. I called him “That Fish” to my friends. He seemed pretty happy for the next few months.

Recently, however, he went back to being a depressed looking fish. He looked exactly the way he did in that windowless office. One day, last week sometime, I brought his bowl over to the sink so I could clean it out and give him some fresh water.

I never really understood people’s fascination with keeping a bird or a fish as a pet. Birds can fly wherever the fuck they want to anywhere, yet, some silly white bastard has to cage them and stare at them 10 minutes a day while speaking gibberish towards it. I bet if these birds had fingers, they’d have killed themselves long ago.

Same goes for fishes.

As I started to drain his little bowl of the foul water, he didn’t appear to try and swim away from the draining water as he usually does. Instead, he headed straight for it and, before I could even blink, he fell into the sink. Luckily, I was able to grab him right quick and put him into the new bowl. I continued cleaning it while thinking, “That was a close one.”

Now he was in a different bowl with the same dirty water from the previous bowl. I had to drain this dirty water in order to put him back into the new bowl. I started dumping the water out while using a net against it in case he tried to make a break for it again. Unluckily, he succeeded in making another break for the sink. Unluckily, I wasn’t able to save him this time. He fell on to the metal part of the drain and just as I was about to snatch him, he slid right down the drain and journeyed down into a world of shit, piss, and used condoms.

I felt awful.

This Empty Bowl (3/2009)

He’s never tried to do that at all, but on this simple day, he tries it twice? How can that be? Regardless, his mission towards suicide was a success. But I felt real bad about draining the hot water from my spaghetti that night down the same drain. It was like I was pouring one on my homie instead of for him.

Charlie Got Punched…

I have no story today but I do have a picture. I’ll let your imagination create a story for this one.

Steak Can Cure That (3/2009)

Wow, I actually drew an entire person, not just the torso. Things may be happening for me after all.

Goodnight Pei Lu: One Year (and change) Later…

The following tale is such that happened over a year ago. These words reported the event the morning it occurred (which were posted on a blog that exists no more). So I repost it here for you, my better readers, complete with an exclusive picture. It is a sad one. Hide the razors.

What began as a weekend of drunken antics ended with a tragedy I wasn’t quite prepared for.

Sunday, 6/3/2007, Doyle (my youngest kitty) jumped on my bed at about 10:00am with a fake purple mouse in his mouth. He made sure to wake me up so I could throw it, giving him some chasing pleasure for about 15 seconds. So I obliged and threw it, and all my other kitties (Reptar and Pei Lu) chased after it, like Lindsey Lohan chases chicks who look like dudes. After that throw, I returned to my slumber.

An hour and a half later, at 11:30am, I woke up to the sound of some kitty ruckus. I looked down to my floor, and noticed that Pei Lu was sprawled out on the floor in a stretching position. Only she didn’t really look like she was stretching; she was sort of shaking. I got out of bed and picked her up. She clearly wasn’t okay. She was gasping for life. I started freaking out, hoping it was just a seizure and that she would be okay moments later.

About a minute or two later, Pei Lu died in my arms. Apparently she had a heart attack. I learned that her specific breed of cat is very susceptible to this feline heart condition (I will not even attempt to spell it) that causes the left ventricles of the heart to stiffen up, causing heart attacks and sudden death.

This is probably the most unbelievable thing that has ever happened to me. Never in a million years would I have thought this to happen. And the worst part about the whole thing is that Pei Lu is Doyle’s mom. Doyle spent the rest of the day Sunday sitting near the spot upon which Pei Lu died.

What an awful day. Good night Pei Lu. You were a truly great cat and I will miss you greatly. I hope your time with me was as pleasant as it could have been and perhaps someday, we’ll see each other again. Take care of yourself kitty, I’ll take real good care of Doyle for you.

That was the last time Doyle ever climbed on my bed to wake me up to play.

Pei Lu’s Final Breath (2/2009)

I guess there is something about that action that causes his memory to recall this awful day. I have since moved from that apartment, so Doyle no longer has to stare at that spot in the carpet. Now, it’s all just a faded memory for him.

Nervous Breakdown

For the past few months, I thought I was in the midst of a nervous breakdown (or quarter-life crisis), but it seems that all the things wrong in my life were pretty inconsequential compared to that of my cat. For the past few weeks, my good feline friend Doyle has had a little rash on his belly. He has also been spending a lot of time in my closet, in the dark, all by himself lately. He would only leave during feeding time or if he had to take a shit.

So there he sat, lonely, in my dark closet. Over the past few days though, said rash on his stomach kept getting bigger and bigger. All he ever did in my lonely closet was bite and lick it, no matter how many times I told him that the ladies don’t like self pity. He was never to kick it with a chick that way. He didn’t care though. Nothing phased him.

I started to sense that my poor little kitty was super depressed. He didn’t even get excited at the sound of the can opener anymore (when tuna was afoot). The rash kept growing and growing, and soon began to leak fluids, before finally, he would leave a spot of blood everywhere he sat down. That was no good for business.

After a few days of this, I decided to run him to the emergency hospital (as trying to get an appointment at any vet’s office sometime this century seems a bit impossible in this town). It was 9:00pm on a Tuesday. Doyle hates car rides, and even worse, hates being put into a cat carrier. He’d rather throw himself off my balcony.

After sitting in the patient’s room for a while (where there was a sweet HDTV set up with Planet Earth playing on loop), the doctor came in and examined him closely. Doyle is a long-haired cat, so his stomach area was mangled with all the blood and saliva of the past few days. They took him in the back and shaved his belly. I don’t think he liked that very much.

She brought him back into the room and began a serious discussion.

“It appears that Doyle here is suffering from a bout of depression,” she says casually.

“What? Are you serious?” I ask in a rather surprised fashion.

“I would say it may be due to stress, but you have said there is nothing really stressful going on in your home. How has he been behaving lately?”

“Well, he has been spending a lot of time in closet, all by himself, in the dark.”

“Oh, see? Anti-social behavior in felines is one of the sure signs.”

The conversation continued. Basically, my cat was a depressed messed and was taking it out on himself.

“What Doyle is doing in comparable to a human being a cutter. So if your cat was a human, he’d be a cutter.”

Was she telling me that little Doyle, had he came out of a woman’s vagina instead of a felines, would spend his days listening to The Cure and wearing tight black jeans and cutting himself? What kind of parent am I to have inspired such an awful lifestyle?

She gave me two things to treat his problem with – a topical spray to help heal the wound and a prescription for antidepressants, which I had to pick up at the nearest human pharmacy. The lady also gave him a shot for something or other.

Now Doyle seems to be doing alright. I have to hide his medicine in these weird cat treats with holes in them. Hopefully now I won’t have to worry about coming home and finding him in my tub with his wrists slit.

Doyle and the Razor Blade (4/2008)