The wedding was over, the guests had left, and our daughter had moved in with her husband. The flat felt empty. After a week of moping in silence, my wife and I decided to get a pet. We wanted something that would fill the void left by our daughter, keeping our parental instincts alivefeeding, training, taking it for walks, and cleaning up after it. I also hoped that, unlike our daughter, it wouldnt talk back, steal my cigarettes, or rummage through the fridge at night. We hadnt settled on what to get yet, planning to decide once we got there.
On Sunday, we headed to the pet market. Near the entrance, cute guinea pigs were on display. I glanced questioningly at my wife.
No, she shut it down. Ours was a land animal.
The fish were too quiet, and the parrots, colourful and chatty, made her allergic to bird fluff. I fancied a monkeyits antics reminded me of our daughter during puberty. But my wife threatened to lie between us like a corpse, so I gave in. After all, Id known the monkey for barely five minutes, whereas I was used to my wife.
That left dogs and cats. Dogs needed constant walks, and cats came with their own hasslesI couldnt picture myself selling kittens outside the Tube. So, a cat it was.
We recognised our cat immediately. He lay in a plexiglass tank, surrounded by clueless kittens nudging his fluffy belly with their damp noses. The cat was asleep. A sign on the tank read *Muffin*. The seller spun a sob story about his rough kittenhoodhow a dog hed grown up with nearly mauled him, leaving the poor thing homeless.
Our pick was a handsome grey Persian with a squashed nose, though there were no papers proving it wasnt a birth defect. According to the lost documents, his official name was *Sir Reginald*, but he responded easily to *Muffin*. So we bought him.
The ride home was uneventfulMuffin snuffled softly under the car seat. In the hallway, knowing my stance on bodily mutilation, my wife smirked and asked,
Are you sure hes not neutered?
I stiffened. Not because I have anything against sexual minorities, but a neutered cat reminds me of Quasimodomercilessly disfigured by humans. I splayed Muffin on the landing for a quick urological check. In the dim light, his furry nether regions were hard to spot, buried under matted clumps on his plush belly. I tried summoning my inner zoophile and ran a hand along his underside. The cat yowled, but everything seemed intact.
That same day, our daughter dropped by for a fridge raid. Spotting Muffin, she abandoned the half-eaten cake and pounced on him. She and her mother dragged him to the bath, scrubbed him with baby shampoo, swaddled him in a towel (mine, for some reason), and blow-dried him.
Once presentable, my wife began brushing him, snipping away the tangled fur. Muffin whined irritably. I left them to it and retreated to the kitchen with a beer.
The peace shattered with a bloodcurdling yowl and a crash. Glass tinkled, followed by a wail. I set my bottle down and hurried over. My wife sat on the sofa, rocking, her hands outstretched, scratched and bloody. Scissors and tufts of fur lay scattered. Our daughter and I hovered over her.
What happened?
She gave us a miserable look and wailed,
B-b-balls!
What balls?
Theyre g-g-gone!
From where?
The c-c-cat!
Im no doctor, but I doubted things just fell off like that. Especially not from cats.
Between sobs, we struggled to piece together the disaster. Being kind-hearted, I briefly considered throttling hersomething about a weeping woman brings out my merciful side, like putting a wounded soldier out of his misery.
Finally, she unclenched her fists. On her bloody, tear-slick palms lay two fluffy tufts, their grey fur speckled with red. Turns out, while trimming the mats between his hind legs, Muffin jerked. The scissors, aimed at a knot, snipped whatever was in their path. And according to her, that happened to be his *balls*.
Through snot and tears, she explained how Muffin had roared, bolted under the sofa (scratching her bloody on the way), and smashed a vase. Frankly, in his place, Id have bitten someones head off and trashed the flat. I told her as much. She wailed again.
Armed with a mop, my daughter and I crawled under the sofa. In the dusty gloom, the newly minted eunuchs amber eyes glowed. He growled, ignoring coaxing and sausages. As one man to another, I understood.
My daughter prodded him toward the edge with the mop while I grabbed for his limbs. Clever blokehe fought back, clawing deep grooves into the handle. Finally, he latched onto the mop and let us drag him out.
God, what a sight. Wild yellow eyes, cobwebs on his whiskers, a tail coated in ancient dust. Half an hour with my wife had turned the regal Persian into a haggard castrato. The analogy depressed me.
I cradled the tense creature, scratching behind his ears until he relaxed, his rumbling purr rough but steady. Oddyoud have to be daft to purr post-castration. My wife tiptoed over, babbling,
Is he hurt? Is he wheezing? Should I call an ambulance?
Muffin cracked a bleary eye, spotted his tormentor, and stiffened. I shooed the women away and took him to the kitchen.
We drank beer together, decompressing. I ranted about life with a house full of women; Muffin murmured sympathetically. Soon, he sprawled belly-up on my lap, purring soulfully. Trust established, I tactfully parted his legs to check if my wifes butchery had affected his manhood.
The inspection was grim. Primary male attributes were missing. I took another swig and combed through his fur. Nothing. Theyd never been there. On my lap lay a cata rather large, pretty Persian *female* with a rounded belly. What my wife had cut off were just bloody matted clumps.
We didnt go punch the seller for the lie. Shared trauma bonded us. And we dont call her Muffin anymore. Yesterday, *Daisy* gave birth to four fluffy kittens. Our home has children again.
