- by Eliza Skinner
There was no question about Bentley’s balls. They had
to go. His meowing was getting really out of control and I
promised myself a few boyfriends ago that I would never let
another dude pee all over my apartment. Plus, all that testosterone
was useless - he’s got no game. I’ve always thought
it must be terrible for pets to want something so badly with
their entire little bodies, but have no idea what it is or
any means to get it. So, let’s just get rid of the balls.
I was still not entirely sold on being a pet owner. Bentley’s
body was already remarkably big, but his head wasn’t
catching up at all - giant body + tiny head = the opposite
of cute. He was loud and messy and often seemed angry with
me for having a job. I sometimes wondered if I’d be
upset if he ran away. It’s not like even I picked him
out - I found him starving in a junkyard, I HAD to take him
Later, when the vet stopped swinging Bentley around and put
down his stethescope, he said they couldn’t operate
on him because he has a heart murmur. Apparently you can only
hear it when he’s agitated, which is almost never (usually
the problem is trying to get him to stop purring) so the vet
had to shake him around to hear it. Which was hilarious looking,
but now I felt guilty about laughing at it. He gave me the
number for a specialist and told me not to worry, and mentioned
that even though Bentley was gigantic he was still a kitten
so there was no rush on the nuetering.
When I got home I signed up for health insurance for Bentley
and made an appointment with the cat cardiologist. I decided
not to worry until someone told me to worry, and plus - he’s
pretty much a roommate, we just live together. Sure, he sleeps
on my head, purrs when I come home, and follows me everywhere
- but there’s no major commitment here. I’m not
a cat lady, and we never chose each other.
At the cardiologist’s they did the regular routine -
weighing him, listening to his heart, checking his teeth -
and then told me they had to take him away from me for his
MRI. Which was suddenly awful. I sat down in the waiting room
and started to fidget and worry. I hoped he wasn’t scared
- he hadn’t been alone outside the apartment since he
moved in. He was just a kitten - he still hadn’t lost
his baby teeth! What if they switched him by mistake and tried
to give me some other cat and he got lost forever?! What if
his heart was all broken and he got scared and agitated with
all those strangers and machines and it exploded or something??
I started wandering into the back hallway where I had last
seen Bentley, walking away with the vet, and bumped right
into her. All the assistants were fawning all over him “he’s
so cute!” “such a sweet cat! He purrs so much!”
and I wanted to slap their hands away and say “yeah,
but he’s mine, bitch. Get your own.” The vet handed
him back to me and said he was fine, it was just a minor congenital
murmur, and that he was a perfect American Shorthair and could
probably be a show cat. Which is true because we are a gorgeous
I went to the window and paid, literally shaking with relief.
Turns out this little asshole who broke my phone and would
soon shit behind my sofa is my cat. And I am his person. And
–holy shit, $491?? That is a pricey MRI! Good thing
I got pet insurance…except 2 weeks later they denied
my claim because it was a “pre-existing condition”.
Motherfucking health care in America!!!
At least they paid for his neutering a month later. He now
has stumpy little used-to-be-balls, and a gut. Without a need
to chase tail and lust after pussy, he has turned all of his
attention to eating constantly and watching reality TV - we
really are a family.
But shit, $491? Look, I don’t make any money off this
blog, but if you feel like paying me back for any chuckles
I might have instigated, click on the link below. It’ll
go straight to Bentley’s heart."
Eliza Skinner is a comedian/actress. Visit her web site at
elizaskinner.net. And check out this hilarious
bit of video.