Kitty Pedophile

I did something yesterday that was so bizarre and borderline freakish, that I couldn’t decide whether I should never speak of it to anyone or exploit myself on my own blog. Now one of those two options clearly sounds more fun than the other, and you my dear readers are about to reap the benefits!!

Each morning when I wake up, my cat, Seven, races me to the kitchen where he proceeds to weave his long body around my calves and ankles. If I don’t pick him up, he will proceed to try and clean his gums on my toes. So I usually opt to pick him up so he can give me some kitty love rather than face the risk of bodily injury or worse: the scorn of an unhappy cat!  

Yesterday morning Seven didn’t try to play Twister with my calves, nor did he try and clean his gums on my toes. Instead he flopped down in the middle of the kitchen floor and started to cry. (I too, have done the same thing on a few occasions, so I didn’t make too much out of it) Then he spread eagle and began licking himself. (I too…. Err… never mind) 

I figured this must be a new ploy to get my attention, (and a highly effective one that that) so I just skipped right to picking him up for kitty love time. However, kitty love time was clearly the farthest thing from Seven’s tormented mind. He howled out his protest and promptly smacked me across the face Scarlet O’Hara style.

That’s when I, not unlike Rhett, was astonished to realize that my affection was not the object of desire. I put Seven down and he repeated the same pattern. He flopped down on the floor and cried, then he spread eagle and licked himself.

“Uh-oh! Do I have to call the vet?” I asked Seven, to which he replied with a long mournful meow.

“Ok, fine. I’ll call Sparrow instead and see if she has any advice,” I told him.

At the mention of her name he fled. (For some strange reason, that cat really hates her.)

A few minutes later, I had Sparrow on the phone and my mouth was gaping at the advice she was giving.

“You want me to do WHAT???”

“It’s no big deal, just massage his penis and it might dislodge any urine crystals he might have.”

“You want me to rub my cat’s pecker?” I asked astonished. 

“Well, you asked for my advice,” Sparrow stated indignantly.

I hung up the phone. Seven stood eye-balling me uneasily from across the room. We had one of those old-fashioned cowboy stand-offs, where each of us stood silently sizing up our opponent. In those moments, I tried to rationalize a way out of the situation. Maybe Seven was just experiencing phantom pains from where his kitty balls used to be?? Maybe he just ate a bad spider or something??

Finally, Seven, caved. He flopped to the floor crying, spread-eagle, and licked. I knew I had to end his pain.

I grabbed a towel. I couldn’t believe I was going to do this.

“Here, kitty, kitty…”

Moments later, I had Seven bundled in a towel, spread-eagle on my lap. I applied a warm face cloth to his little kitty pecker and he growled at me. The growl was reminiscent of that cat in Pet Cemetery that comes back from the dead processed with an evil spirit. 

I massaged his pecker with a face cloth for a few minutes (because I really could not bring myself to actually touch it with my hand for fear of feeling like a kitty pedophile) and he continued to loudly voice his dissatisfaction with the situation.

I worried about him all day at work, and even felt guilty enough for violating his cathood, that on the way home I stopped to buy him some tuna fish.

When I got home, Seven, greeted me in his usual fashion. He twined himself between my legs and purred out his gratitude for the pecker massage, which had clearly left him feeling much better.

Thanks Sparrow, your advice as unorthodox as it may have been, really turned the trick!