The wedding was over, the guests had gone home, and our daughter had moved in with her husband. The flat felt empty. After a week of moping in the silence, my wife and I decided to get a petsomething that could fill the daughter-shaped void and keep our parental instincts alive. We needed something to feed, train, walk, and clean up after. Also, unlike our daughter, I hoped it wouldnt talk back, steal my cigarettes, or rummage through the fridge at midnight. We hadnt settled on what to get yet, planning to decide once we got to the pet shop.
On Sunday, we headed to the local animal market. Near the entrance, adorable guinea pigs were up for grabs. I shot my wife a questioning look.
“Nope,” she said flatly. “Ours was land-dwelling.”
The fish were too quiet, and the parrotscolourful and chattytriggered her allergies with all that feathery fluff. I fancied a monkey; its antics reminded me of our daughter during her teenage phase. But my wife threatened to lie between us “like a corpse,” so I backed down. After all, Id known the monkey for about five minutes, whereas I was quite attached to my wife.
That left dogs and cats. Dogs needed constant walks, and cats came with their own headachesI couldnt quite picture myself hawking kittens outside the Tube station. So, a cat it was.
We knew our cat the moment we saw him. He lay in a plexiglass enclosure, surrounded by dopey kittens nuzzling his fluffy belly while he snoozed. A sign read “Muffin.” The seller spun a sob story about his tough kittenhoodhow a dog hed grown up with nearly mauled him, leaving the poor thing homeless.
Outwardly, our pick was a posh-looking Persian with gorgeous grey fur. No papers confirmed his squashed nose was a breed trait rather than a birth defect. Officially, he was “Reginald,” but he answered to Muffin just fine. So, we bought him.
The drive home was uneventfulMuffin snuffled quietly under the car seat. In the hallway, knowing my stance on bodily integrity, my wife smirked and asked,
“You sure hes not neutered?”
I tensed. Not because I have anything against alternative lifestyles, but a neutered cat always struck me as a Quasimodocruelly disfigured by humans. I splayed Muffin on the landing for a quick urological inspection. In the dim light, his furry nether regions were hard to spot, and his plush belly was matted with clumps of fur. Summoning my inner zoophile, I ran a hand along his underside. Muffin yowled, but everything seemed intact.
Later, our daughter dropped by to raid the fridge. Spotting Muffin, she abandoned her half-eaten cake and pounced. She and my wife bundled him into the bath, scrubbed him with baby shampoo, swaddled him infor some reasonmy towel, and blow-dried him.
Once presentable, my wife began brushing him, snipping away matted fur while Muffin grumbled. I left them to it, retreating to the kitchen with a beer.
The peace shattered with a bloodcurdling yowl and a crash. Glass tinkled, followed by wailing. I set my bottle down and investigated. My wife sat on the sofa, rocking and howling, her hands scratched and bleeding. Scissors and tufts of fur lay scattered. Our daughter and I hovered.
“What happened?”
She gave us a mournful look and wailed, “The b-b-balls!”
“What balls?”
“G-g-gone!”
“From where?”
“The c-c-cat!”
Im no vet, but I doubted such things just *fell off*. Especially on cats.
Through sobs, we pieced it together: while trimming a mat between his legs, the cat jerked. Her scissors, aimed at the fur, snipped what was in the waywhich, she swore, were his *balls*.
Muffin had howled, fled under the sofa (clawing her hands bloody en route), and knocked over a vase. Frankly, Id have done worse in his placebitten heads off, wrecked the flat. I said as much. She wailed louder.
Armed with a mop, my daughter and I crawled under the sofa. In the dusty gloom, the newly minted eunuchs eyes glowed amber. He ignored sweet talk and sausage bribes. As one bloke to another, I got it.
My daughter prodded him toward us with the mop while I tried grabbing a limb. Clever lad, he fought back, clawing the handle. Finally, he hooked onto it and slid closer.
God, what a sight! Wild yellow eyes, cobwebbed whiskers, a tail dusted with ancient fluff. Half an hour with my wife had turned a regal Persian into a hobo castrato. I scooped him up, scratching his ears till he relaxed into a raspy purr. Oddyoud think castration would kill the mood.
My wife tiptoed over, babbling, “Is he okay? Hes wheezing! Should I call an ambulance?”
Muffin cracked a bleary eye, saw her, and stiffened. Yeah, wheezing seemed imminent. I shooed the women away and took him to the kitchen.
Over beers, we bonded. I vented about living with women; he purred sympathetically. Soon, he sprawled belly-up on my lap, purring like a diesel engine. Heart-to-hearts led to awkward questions. Tactfully, I checked his equipment.
Nothing.
I sipped my beer, checked again. Still nothing.
On my lap sat a rather large, very pregnant Persian *cat*. What my wife had “snipped” were bloody fur clumps.
We didnt throttle the seller for the switcheroo. Shared trauma had united us.
And her name isnt Muffin anymore.
Yesterday, Daisy had four fluffy kittens. Our house is full of kids again.
