Our house is overwhelmed with 100s (no exaggeration) of cat items,  “You married a cat person,” she’d say.  Don’t I know it.

These gad damn cats won’t die.  Back in the 90’s, our cat Wolfman had been taken by coyotes.  Phyllis was distraught.  I couldn’t hide my glee.  I became a big coyote fan.  But, despite letting them out daily, which would anger Phyl, the coyotes have not done their job in over 18 years.

Phyl found newborns Nosy and Beauty (Beauty was Phyl’s name for the latter: I’ve always called her Cuckookitty.) being attacked by birds, in a box outside her library.  Phyl brought the cats home.  A year later, an executive producer  gifted Jody a cat he called Webster. Jody brought the cat home.  I’ve regretted those moments only a tad less than 9-11.  I’ve tried bad food, owls, possums, lockouts, yelling, incarceration, throwing things, and, if wishes could come true, their nine lives would’ve been gone, twenty years ago.   They do nothing but poop, barf, and shed.  And taunt, “We’re here.  We’ll always be here.  Fuck you.  Where’s the Fancy Feast?”

A story I’ve never told anyone….Webby was going out hunting at night.  He’d bring back “presents” like birds, lizards, and mice.   He was also eating grass, and, as cats wont to do, throwing up.  Except, no matter how hard I tried to prevent him, he was coming back in the house to throw up.  Phyl said it was normal.  Phyl would’ve excused our cats if they were axe murderers.  I wanted to hit Webby, but Phyl would’ve gone ballistic.  A clear yellow floor cleaner bottle had leaked.  I thought Webby had peed the floor in the house.  Phyl was asleep, I was the one who went ballistic.  As Phyl often used to say, “Yauh th’one with the tempuh,” and she’d take the cats with her to the bedroom, telling them, “Let’s get you away from the mean daddy.”   That night, I grabbed Webby and tried teaching him a lesson, sticking his face in the cleaning fluid that I thought was his pee.  He licked and cleaned himself, as cats do, and the next thing I remember is Phyllis awakening me at 4 a.m. screaming that Webby was dying.  He was severely distressed, hidden on the closet floor, barely breathing.  We raced him to an emergency pet hospital in Los Angeles, where he was operated on, as we missed school.  Cost: nearly $2000 for 4 hours and, so far, 15 more years of that god damn cat.  The fucker is smirking, watching me type this, in a pose Phyl used to call, “Webby licking his lips.  Right now he’s incessantly meowing, ‘Get off the computer.  You’re late, asshole.  Where’s my gad damn expensive Fancy Feast?”