Pillow Blog: Six Anecdotes About My Cat

In honour of International Cat Day, which might be a real holiday but may also have just been willed into existence through the collective force of the Internet, here is a list devoted to the one, the only, Marvin C. Protagitron.

Who, Me?

Six Anecdotes About My Cat

1. Marvin's original owner named him Zaphod. I renamed him Marvin because I hated the name Zaphod. I named him after Marvin Gaye, because he was so vocal. Now I realize I should have named him Wilhelm, after the Wilhelm Scream.

2. At the height of his annoying howling stage, I tried to rehome him with three different people, all of whom flaked out at the last minute. This collection included his previous owner, by the way. After the third time, I decided I was going to figure out a way for the furry little jerk to live with me. So now Marvin and I live in semi-peace, out of spite towards the flakiness of others. Spite is a powerful force, perhaps stronger than love.

3. Dan and I have created a rich interior life for Marvin, where he plots to kill us and fantasizes about having relations with Gary Busey. When we pretend to be Marvin we adopt the same voice as Christian Bale used for Batman. We've decided that what Marvin likes best about Gary Busey is his teeth.

4. Alternate names for Marvin include the Orange Menace; Katsu, Cat-King of the Kaiju; and Stinky Man.

5. Dan hated living with Marvin at first and still maintains that he doesn't like him. However, I have photo evidence of Dan picking up the cat and nuzzling him. He also asked Marvin last week if he loved him. The cat remained silent.

6. In spite of the hours of grief and hundreds of dollars spent on this cat, I love him. He keeps my feet warm at night and welcomes me home from work with the loveable shrieks of a banshee (it's an acquired taste). I've lived with three very different cats so far, and they've all enriched my life with much more than just cat hair. Even Marvin.

Howl! A Musical, Starring Marvin

Various men have caused me trouble in my life, from unrequited crushes to condescending blowhards at parties, and yet my most consistent source of trouble is the male I call Marvin.

He's small, he's ginger, and he's a cat.

It's been about a year since I moved in with Dan, which means it's been about a year of regular howling from Marvin and equally consistent crying episodes from me. I tried the hormone spray, the hormone collar, and the hormone diffuser. I let him go outside, briefly, before forcing him back inside before a truck could turn him into an orange pancake, because his favourite outdoor pursuit was sunbathing on the road. Finally, there was the calming cat food and an endless parade of ever more expensive cat toys until I just turned to medication.

The first dosage level worked for a whole month.

But after the 3:30 am wakeup screeches resumed, I decided things had to change. I told my old roommate (she's responsible for my ownership of the cat, through a tale that's telenovela-complicated) that I was going to surrender him. She said she was sure that her cousin would take him in a week. The day before he was supposed to leave, the cousin backed out. Then, Marvin's previous owner was supposed to call me so he could go on a one-week trial with her. She never did. Finally, my friend's cousin expressed some interest, before cancelling the day she was supposed to visit him. I haven't heard from her since, and I have now resigned myself to the fact that we'll never be separated. I'll be dead in the cold, hard ground, while Marvin naps on my grave in the afternoon sun.

I still have the surrender forms I printed off the Toronto Humane Society website, and I fill parts out during idle moments at work. But I probably won't send them in. Though he still spends most of the day making sounds that are like the wail of a banshee crossed with the blare of a car alarm, he sleeps through the night. That's enough. And it only took one simple trick.

I doubled his medication dosage.

My Marvin Troubles

Marvin isn't taking the move in with Dan well. And, like all concerned parents, I wish I could outsource my parenting issues to picture books. Here's what I would buy Marvin:

... AND HE TURNED PRETTY WELL.

If he could read, that is. Marvin remains stubbornly illiterate, though not silent. Oh no, everything but that. He was vocal before (I named him after Gaye not Lee for a reason) but ever since the move he's been a non-stop howling machine. For a while, he would regularly howl between 4:30 and 4:40 in the morning, before his regular 6am hour of howling power. Then he would keep it going throughout the day, before finishing off with an evening recital of demonic yowls and then a well-deserved dinner. 

It made me cry. It frustrated Dan. It made me angry. And finally, it made me hopeless. 

We tried the calming collar ($20.) Then we took him to the vet for shots and a hormone spray (nearly $300). There were more toys and a collar so he could go outside ($18). The the hormone diffuser ($60) and another collar because he hid his first one, as well as more toys to keep him entertained ($18.) Finally, a scratch box and a squeaky squirrel ($19.) Now he's going for blood work on Saturday ($money I don't have.)

And still, he howls.  

We had to stop letting him outside because his favourite activity, according to several concerned neighbours, was to lounge in the middle of the road, letting cars come at him. My little death wish kitty.

On Friday, the noise was so bad that I held Marvin and cried. After nearly strangling him. I cried because I was frustrated and tired, because I wanted to seriously hurt an animal, and because I didn't know what else I could do, or at least afford. 

Marvin watched me cry before letting out a truly horrendous yowl. I looked at him, anime eyes and all, and realized that I wanted to do nothing more than something I thought I would never, ever consider: surrender an animal. 

Yes, I wanted to surrender this face.

I felt so guilty for considering it, but that didn't stop me from googling it. And of course I cried some more, for being the kind of person who would just give up. That guilt means Marvin is still here. Good for Marvin. But there's a bit of shame in knowing that I didn't want to do the right thing, so much that I didn't want to be the person who did the wrong one.

Cats Vs Dogs

I never understood why parents hit their children until my current cat, Marvin, came into my life.

Aww, look at that face, the anime-large eyes, the little pink gumdrop nose... the only thing that's not pictured are his concentration-shattering howls of need. I am paying attention to him: this is awful. I am not paying attention to him: this is WORSE.

Now here's my dog, Smitty, calm and content in the knowledge that his is the best life. EVER. Food, companionship, more food for providing companionship: it's all great. His biggest concern was when the phone would ring, and he would vociferously defend his flock from the cordless menace. But now my parents have cellphones. The threat is over. It is time to rest, and sleep, and occasionally sigh.

My cat would prefer to continue meow-howling - meowling - forever. I bought a spray bottle and now his favourite game is to meow, wait for me to grab the bottle, then see if he can sprint faster than the spray. Guess what: he can.

So it would seem that I have a clear favourite in the eternal battle between cat and dog. Sweet, selfless dog, vs. selfish, possible mentally unstable cat. Dog is god.

Just as I was writing this post though, Marvin hopped up on the end of my bed and quietly watched me type. Every morning I wake up to find him spooning me, content to be dragged into my arms like a bag of cat parts and squeezed like a stuffed bear. His cuddly nature is the one thing that has stopped me from punting him out of the window on oh so many sleepless nights. I'm not a dog person, or a cat person, I'm an animal person. And I'm in desperate need of a really good lint brush.

The Cat-istential School of Philosophy

Today was a morning of sloth, even though it was supposed to be a morning of activity. i was going to be a good little productive person, and polish up my stats assignment, get my hair cut, and eat a fully balanced breakfast before class started at 1pm. instead, I woke up at 10:30 and ate a handful of wine gums chased by some Coke. Oh well, there is always next week.

I am currently at a philosophical impasse: Would following the tutorial and making this:

Link

... make me a crazy cat lady? I mean, most of my anecdotes already revolve around my cats. Should all of my activities? I think the cats are already convinced that they do. Just think of the crazy plans they'll start making once they see me slaving over cardboard, cutting each strip equally wide, and then endlessly taping them together. It's a damn cute idea though.

The... Weekly Protagitron?

I had a half-written post from Monday I kept on meaning to finish at various times through out the week and post. Then I realized that it was a week later, and I may as well start a new post from scratch. Last week's top headlines:

KITTY TOUCHDOWN
Alright, last week they shelter phoned right after I posted, and told us they thought it would be too traumatic to break up the litter of kittens, so we wouldn't be getting a cat that weekend. Cue wailing and rending of garments. Then they wanted to know if we could foster a cat with leukemia, but when they found out about Gibby the degu (see my user pic) they were worried that it would transfer to Gibby. Wait- there's a crazy trans-species Mexican jumping cancer? Scary. Anyway, no cat for a week. But then the shelter phoned again on Friday and told us a big, fat male cat would be coming our way. And he did. And then he promptly heaved his girth under Katie's bed to hide. He's come out twice since then, but he seems like a pretty nice, chill cat so I think it won't take long before he's lounging on the couch with us. Preferably watching Law and Order. He just came out to walk around the kitchen, but when I came to see he ran bakc under the bed. He lets me pet him under the bed though, and purrs adorably.

WRITERS' BLOCK AFFLICTS PROTAGITRON, DOCTORS NOT OPTIMISTIC
For the past month I've been trying to write an essay that's due Monday. I'll sit down, try and think of a decent thesis, and then abandon my efforts because my brain is a big puddle of mush and I hate Ibsen. Well, that's a lie. I just hate the poorly worded, limited topic on The Wild Duck Prof. Hammy gave us. It will be finished by Monday, but probably not finished well. So far I have three words. "The", "Wild", and "Duck".

ANXIETY ALSO AFFLICTS PROTAGITRON, EXPERTS PLACE HER AT "JOB" STATUS
As you may, or may not know, I've been trying to deal with some personal issues with a limited degree of failure, er, success lately. And it's beginning to manifest itself in annoying physical symptoms. Stop now, before it gets all TMI. I

I'm not sure what's going on with my health right now. What will tomorrow hold? Testicular cancer? Teratoma? Suspense! Alright, I'm being just a mite hyperbolic (CONSUMPTION?!?!?), but really. For some reason, I was embarrasingly anxious all through Monday. Hyperventilating, jaw-clenching, the works. And the strangest thins is that logically, I could recognize that this was ridiculous.

I even tried to fix it, but quiet time in the library didn't work. I was breathing all "heeeeeee heeeeeee" as I tried to read The Woman in White. Then, I tried eating my salad. Still extremely tense. Next thing, retail therapy, which led to me going all "heeee heeeee" in the middle of Chapters. Which, speaking of, why aren't there any decent pattern books focusing on fair isle and/or intarsia? There are lots of lovely lace books, sock books, cabling... "Hip Graphic Knits" sounds promising, and then... BEGONE COLOUR SCHEME OF THE DAMNED! THE DAMNED BRADY BUNCH! Then, I had to go to The Word to buy a book, Kant's A Critique of Judgment for class. The Word is McGill's local used bookstore, selling old textbooks, occasionally some class materials, and secondhand books in an absurdly small space. Maybe I'm just judging it by the two secondhand bookstores I'm most familiar with. Macondo, back in Guelph, is about two rooms crammed full of books of all kinds. Mainly fiction, but also kid's books, craft books, coffee table books, travel books... all packed in shelves, stacked on tables, and piled on the floor. It's a bit of jumble, and a pain to navigate when there are more than two people in the entire store, but since these are the kind of people who decorate with dried flowers and photos of Kafka, and insist on using an antique register, it's part of some ill-defined charm. J. Westcott Books is local to my apartment, and is right next to an adult store, in a nice Montreal touch. I've often wanted to have all of my dildo and Durnell needs conveniently taken care of. It's a shade more of a collector's store than Macondo, but is still fairly large, with the suitcase of 50cent pulp books and the fleet of cats. Compared to these too, the Word is about the size of a pimple, and the stock turnover outside of textbooks is very, very slow. So, I get there and the entire staff is engaged in some sort of debate over the new American passport laws. I take a tour of the store, pretending that I'm really interested in buying... whatever it is I can find on the shelves. A guidebook to Turkey! Yes, I will buy a guidebook to Turkey. From 1998. Yes. Please look at me, staff, heee heee heeee. Finally succeed in getting their attention, buy my book, and decide to try and eat my troubles away again. A bran and date muffin from Timmy's. Saturated fat has curative powers, right? Heeee heeee heeeee. Nope. Then, back to the Arts Building to try and read away my tenseness. Narrowly avoid Prof. Woodlouse. Heavy breathing worsens, my last class of the day begins, and I slowly make only a semi-ass of myself as I haltingly participate in class discussion. A slightly better end to my day.

Then, on Tuesday, I came home after my only class of the day so tired, that I pretty much just fell into bed and passed out until nineish. Figured it was just a reaction to the anxiety of the day before, but then I was tired and cranky all through Wednesday and Thursday, and then on Friday I was so tired that I had to go home before my last class. That, and my skin was a distinctly unhealthy shade of chamois, which combined with my newly resurgent eczema to make me look as if I had a new and exciting skin condition. Scarlet leprosy, say, or roving plague. Now, I know I'm probably being all hyperbolicn and it was only the flourescent lighting in Sherbrooke 688, but still. Next week I'm going to try and CALM THE HELL DOWN so I don't have a stroke, or a repeat of the stairs incident.

I Need a New Title

Hmm, maybe I should call my blog "The Weekly Protagitron", or perhaps "The Fortnightly Protagitron". What happened during the week? Well, just a few big updates. I decided to keep my boots, since they've been rather comfortable since the day of pain- maybe they just needed to be broken in. I signed up for swing dance classes with my wonderful friend, Diane. Currently the odds are good that I'll cry after my first lesson, so I'm planning to take the drinking offense. Which means the odds are now good that I'll seriously injure Diane. Oh well. I'm taking the class through the McGill gym, which apparently also offers Equestrian classes. Diane and I already have plans to take that next year. I finally broke down and checked my grades from last semester, and was... mildly distressed. Then I bought a bottle of JD's and watched Road House. Things then seemed better. I still haven't got around to finishing the bottle.

And the biggest news of all... today my much-beloved room mate and I are getting a cat. Not a permanent cat, alas, but a foster cat. Still, Katie and I bought a bunch of supplies for the fuzzball. My contribution was a toy shaped like a shrimp, but looking rather more like a shrimp with a horrible skin condition and bug eyes. Katie's contribution was pretty much everything else, and since the food dishes, litter scoop, box, and toy were bought at Dollarama, they pretty much cost as much as my hideous shrimp toy. Whatever. When the kitten is having night terrors imagining mutated shrimp eating his feline flesh, he'll know who to thank.