Aunt Suzy is outside my home office window right now meowing her freaking head off. I've tried to write four different columns today and have failed miserably. The reason I am so miserably failing at column-writing is because I can't concentrate, and I can't concentrate because Aunt Suzy is outside my office window meowing her freaking head off.
For those of you who don't know the ongoing saga of Piss Cat, as we not-so-lovingly refer to her, here you go: Aunt Suzy is my cat from before I got married. She is half Siamese, half spawn of Satan and has been urinating throughout our household for some time now. In the last year, it had gotten really bad. She pissed on the couch, she pissed on the recliner, she pissed on the rugs, she pissed on the flooring, she pissed in our shoes, she pissed on the bed and every once in a while, while we slept, she pissed on us. It's been an oppressive existence and we've been enduring the tyrant's rain of terror for about four years now.
And, yes, we tried-we really, really tried-not to blame her for her megalomaniacal ureter. Suzy has been with us a long time. We consider her a family member and really truly do love that old Piss Cat, and I'm quite certain Piss Cat loves us, too. But you can only live in the domain of a tyrannical micturator for so long before a putrid cloud of resentment forms. And whenever I consider the love/hate dichotomy of our relationship, I can't help but hear the Roger Daltrey song that has been the soundtrack to our existence for so many years now.
“Love reign o'er me, rain on me.”
We tried everything to make her stop. Nothing worked. We recently started covering the living room furniture with these big, ugly, blue plastic tarps. Of course, Der Fuehrer just emptied herself on top of the tarps, which is preferable, I guess, to her soiling the furniture, but it did present its own set of difficulties. Like, for instance, what happened the other day-an incident I call Catastrophe at Reclining Chair:
I had been working in my office all afternoon and decided to take a TV break. I proceeded to remove the tarp from the recliner. Not noticing the puddle of cat piss on the center of the tarp, I grasped a corner to shake it up and off the couch the way your shake a beach towel to dispatch the sand. In doing so I threw the puddle of urine into the air, only to have it shower back down upon my head and face.
“Only love can bring the rain / that falls like tears / like tears from on high.”
As the unholy monsoon cascaded upon my person, a bolt of rage surged through me. It was as powerful a bolt of rage as any I've ever experienced. It was the kind of bolt of rage that stabbed Nancy Spungen in the gut. It was the kind of bolt of rage that pulled the straight razor across Van Gogh's ear. It was the kind of bolt of rage that thrusts a person into that other nether universe-where it's always dark, except for the orange glow of hellfires that blaze on the hillsides and light the underside of the immense black clouds that float low in the atmosphere.
As her feline ejecta soaked into my hair and shirt, I could hear Roger Daltrey screaming out a great, screaming, despair-filled scream.
“Love! Reign o'er me. Rain oh'er me!”
I saw Suzy cowering in the corner, and I became flooded with the desire to twist off her head and pour splintered chicken bones down her throat.
“LAAAAAOOOOOVE, Rain over me, reign over me. Rain oh-oh-oh-oh oh-ver me, me-ee-ee-eeeah-uh meeee.”
And then, like the song that has been the soundtrack to our lives for so many years, the urge to murder my cat ebbed into a soft, throbbing sorrow, and I returned from the nether alternate universe of dark rage. It was then that I made a decision. From now on, Suzy would be exiled outside. With that, I gently placed her onto the stoop and shut the door behind her.
That was five days ago. She's been meowing her freaking head off ever since. All day long, from the moment I wake up and put her outside until we let her back in at night, she stands by my office window going “Meow, meow, meow.” She's out there now, meow. She never stops. She just goes, Meow, meow, meow, meow, incessantly, like she has a cyborg throat. Meowmeowmeow all day. It's like Siamese water torture. She also says “Mmow” (I'm cold) and “Muh-ow” (I'm lonely). And a “Muwwo-mow-muw” (Can't you see I'm dying out here?). And now it's deadline time for “Sordid Tales.” But I can't write because I can't freaking concentrate. And while I realize maybe this time I can get away with writing a column about how I can't write a column, I certainly can't keep doing it. I'm beginning to think that it might be time to make some difficult choices.
EPILOGUE: The decision was made to take Aunt Suzy to the Humane Society. It was an extraordinarily rotten thing to have to decide. I was so distraught with the idea of having to turn her out, I couldn't even bring myself to do it. Instead, I made W. take her. I mistakenly figured it would be easier for her because Suzy was my cat.
It was a pussy move.
When W. came home from the Humane Society, her eyes were red and wet from sobbing. She had managed to stop crying for the moment. But the remnant of her breakdown was all I needed. As soon as I saw her face, I began sobbing. My sobbing made her start sobbing all over again. We fell into each other's arms and sobbed together. It sucked major ass.
“Only love can bring the rain that falls like tears from on high.”
E-mail ed[at]edwindecker[dot]com and editor[at]SDcitybeat[dot]com