Can a manly man own a cat? Let me tell ya. . . .

By Jon Perry

September 20, 2005 | Is it socially acceptable for a man to own a cat? A friend of mine says owning a feline is about as manly as liking the Backstreet Boys or wearing a pink shirt; of course he also breaks out into a rash when my cat's around and sneezes uncontrollably. Maybe he's just mad because my cat always gets the best of him. Regardless, my friend may have a point. I did get my cat on a less than logical whim.

Mr. Mook is a big, lazy, black cat that used to live with his owner and me. While sharing a roof with them, I began to sense that Mr. Mook didn't appreciate my company. He would do things like stand up and move out of reach when I tried to pet him, roll his big green eyes whenever I entered the room, and once, I swear, he farted in my girlfriend's face on purpose.

I'd like to say I just ignored my friend's cat's behavior and just let it go. Instead I decided the only way I could get revenge on Mr. Mook would be to get a cat of my own. I decided I would treat my cat like a king, feed it the best foods, and pet my kitty anytime Mr. Mook was present. I figured Mr. Mook would become extremely jealous and would come crawling, offering his undying friendship, but by this time it would be too late. I would reject him.

I scoped the local want ads and found a woman who was giving away kittens. When my girlfriend and I arrived at her house, we came to realize she was what people refer to as a "cat lady." She wore a bright purple muumuu, smoked generic cigarettes, and lodged 20 scrawny, smelly cats. It was in that motley bunch I found my new, furry companion. It was love at first sight. She had little hazel eyes and a half mustache in the form of a black spot on her otherwise white fur. She looked up at me as if to say "What the hell took you so long?" After promising Cat Lady I would not use my kitten as a sacrifice for a satanic cult, I put my new little friend in the car and, on the way home, we named her Kyia.

I was happy when my roommate seemed excited about our new roommate. I was even more pleased when I saw the look of dissatisfaction on Mr. Mook's face when he saw his new living companion. At long last, I had Mr. Mook right where I wanted him.

I learned a lot about Kyia during that first week. First, it became apparent she was a shedder. Five minutes of holding my new kitty and I looked like the abominable snowman. Second, Kyia was capable of producing more brown bars than the local chocolate factory; her litter box required constant cleaning. Last, but not least, my girlfriend and I contracted sudden cases of acne, or as the vet would call it, we had fleas. We were prescribed an ointment that we put on Kyia and soon enough the acne disappeared, but not before my roommate informed me he had strange bumps on his back. I was quick to inform him that maybe he'd been eating too much fast food.

Over the next six months I observed a couple of things about my two furry roommates. First, Mr. Mook didn't give two kibbles about how well I treated Kyia. He would still just lie around all day acting like he was better than I was, ever annoyed by my existence. Second, Kyia was starting to get a little tubby. It soon became apparent Kyia was pregnant. How could this have happened? Had my little innocent Kyia been deflowered by some foul predator of the night? Or perhaps this was an inside job. Mr. Mook! I immediately called my roommate and told him the situation. He told me Mr. Mook no longer possessed the necessary tools to procreate. It was at that moment I realized behind Mr. Mook's tough exterior was a kitten that hurt. That day I forgave Mr. Mook for being such a jerk.

Kyia had four kittens that summer. We gave them cool names like Biggy Smalls and Helmut Von Schmidt. It was fun to watch them grow up, but soon it was time to give them away. I figured an hour in a supermarket parking lot and I'd be able to send them home with happy kids and pushover moms. As I was carrying my TV box full of kittens out to my truck, a group of young girls walking down the street inquired about its contents. I showed them the kittens and within 10 minutes Kyia's babies had new homes. I was happy because two families had each taken a set; therefore they would be able to grow up together. My high hopes came crashing down when two weeks later I saw one of the little girls, and I asked her how her new pets were. She raised her hands in the air, shrugged, and said in a bewildered four-year-old voice, "The dog ate the kitties!" I remember holding back tears, and feeling like the worst grandfather ever.

That fall, my roommate and Mr. Mook moved out and I began my hunt for a new tenant. I found it strange I missed Mr. Mook more than I missed my roommate. In retrospect, I figure it was because I could still call my roommate to see how he was doing. It doesn't quite work that way with a cat, and even if it did, I doubt Mr. Mook would really be the type that would be down for a chat.

My new roommate was allergic to cats, so Kyia spent a long, cold winter living outside. I did what I could to make sure she was taken care of but I could tell she was miserable. Whenever possible, I would smuggle her into my room and pet her until her fur warmed up. It usually wasn't long until my roommate became aware of my little refugee. His loud sneezes would sound like a shotgun being fired into the air, alerting the house of an intruder. I would quickly open my window and lightly toss Kyia out into the brittle snow. I felt for her, but what could I do?

Early this year I got married, so my roommate moved out and my wife and Kyia moved in. At first Kyia seemed shy around my wife but it wasn't long until she craved her affection. My wife returned Kyia's attention by brushing her often and talking to her when she would pet her.

We also found that Kyia, even after spending the winter outside, preferred pooping in a litter box. Our little cat would hold it until we let her in, and than make a mad dash for her sandy little latrine. Recently Kyia pooped out a tapeworm, and immediately after, she got red eye. It was my job to take her to the vet where I was given pills for the tapeworm and some goop for her eye. My wife tried to feed her the pill wrapped in meat but Kyia wasn't biting. It was then up to me to pry open her little mouth and force-feed her the pill, as well as apply the gooey substance to her eye. After two weeks of this unpleasant ritual, Kyia no longer seemed sick. Unfortunately Kyia also no longer seemed to like me. When I'd come home, I would call her but she wouldn't come; I would find her in the back corner of the house, hiding.

These days I would have to say my wife has a nice cat and I have a little furry roommate who runs from me when I try to pet her, watches me like I am the devil, and pays attention to me only if she is really hungry.

So when my friend tells me that it's not cool for a guy to own a cat, I say "Hey, I don't own a cat, I don't even think I could own cat if I wanted to. I'm that manly." What I don't tell him is I've been thinking about getting a cat, and when I do I'm gonna treat it like a king, I'm gonna feed it the best foods, and I'm gonna pet my kitty any time my wife's cat Kyia is around.

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