**Diary Entry: The Tale of Whiskers**
The wedding was over, the guests had left, and our daughter moved in with her husband. The flat felt empty. After a week of suffocating in the silence, my wife and I decided to get a pet. We wanted something that could fill the void our daughter left behindsomething to keep our parental instincts alive: feeding, training, walking, and cleaning up after another living thing. I also quietly hoped that, unlike our daughter, this animal wouldnt talk back, pinch my cigarettes, or raid the fridge at night. We hadnt decided what to get yet, figuring wed make up our minds at the market.
On Sunday, we headed to the pet market. Near the entrance, a vendor sold adorable guinea pigs. I glanced at my wife.
“No,” she said flatly. “Ours was land-dwelling.”
The fish were too quiet, and the parrotscolourful and chattytriggered her allergy to bird dander. A monkey caught my eye; its antics reminded me of our daughter during her teenage years. But my wife threatened to lie down between us like a corpse, so I relented. After all, Id known the monkey for all of five minutes, and I was rather attached to my wife.
That left dogs and cats. Dogs needed constant walks, and cats came with their own hasslesI had no desire to become the bloke selling 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 clueless kittens nuzzling his fluffy belly as he slept. A sign on the tank read *Whiskers*. The seller spun a sob story about his rough kittenhoodhow the family dog, having grown up with him, nearly mauled him, leaving poor Whiskers with no place in their home.
Our chosen one was a handsome grey Persian, though without papers to prove his squashed nose was a breed trait and not an injury. According to his lost pedigree, his name was *Reginald*, but he answered to *Whiskers* just fine. So, we bought him.
The trip home was uneventfulWhiskers snored softly under the car seat. In the hallway, knowing my stance on bodily mutilation, my wife smirked and asked, “Youre sure hes not neutered?”
I tensed. Not because I have anything against sexual minorities, but a neutered cat always struck me as a Quasimodocruelly disfigured by human hands. I sprawled Whiskers on the landing for a quick inspection. In the dim light, his fur-covered nether regions were hard to make out, his belly a mess of tangled fluff. Summoning my inner zoophile, I ran a hand between his legs. He yowled, but his equipment seemed intact.
That evening, our daughter swung by to raid the fridge. Spotting Whiskers, she abandoned the half-eaten cake and pounced on him. She and her mother bundled him into the bath, scrubbed him with baby shampoo, swaddled him ininexplicablymy towel, and blow-dried him.
Once presentable, my wife began brushing him, snipping away matted clumps. Whiskers grumbled. I left them to it, retreating to the kitchen with a beer.
The peace shattered with a blood-curdling yowl and a crash. Glass tinkled, followed by wailing. I set my bottle down and hurried over. My wife sat on the sofa, rocking, her hands clawed and bloody. Scissors and tufts of fur littered the floor. Our daughter and I crowded around the victim.
“What happened?”
She gave us a miserable look and howled, “B-b-balls!”
“What balls?”
“Theyre g-g-gone!”
“Whose?”
“The c-c-cats!”
Im no doctor, but Im fairly certain those things dont just fall off. Least of all on cats.
Between sobs, we struggled to piece together the disaster. Being a kind man, I briefly fantasised about strangling my beloved. I always feel that urge around weeping womenpurely out of mercy, like putting down a wounded soldier to spare everyone the agony.
Finally, she unclenched her fists. On her tear-and-blood-slicked palms lay two fluffy grey clumps, dotted with red. Turns out, while trimming the mats between his legs, Whiskers jerkedand she, scissors already poised, snipped what fell into the line of fire. According to her, those were most definitely his balls.
Through snot and tears, she explained that Whiskers had roared in pain, bolted under the sofa (clawing her hands bloody en route), and knocked over a vase. Frankly, Id have bitten someones head off and trashed the flat if itd been me. I told her as much. She wailed louder.
Armed with a mop, our daughter and I crawled under the sofa. In the dusty gloom, the eyes of our newly minted eunuch glowed amber. He growled. Neither coaxing nor sausages moved him. As one man to another, I understood.
Our daughter prodded him toward the edge while I tried grabbing a limb. Whiskers, sharp as a tack, fought back, scratching the mop handle to ribbons. Finally, he hooked his claws in and slid closer. Good God, the state of him! Wild yellow eyes, cobwebbed whiskers, tail dusted with ancient fluff. Half an hour with my wife had turned a regal Persian into a hobo castrato. The analogy depressed me.
I pulled the trembling beast onto my lap, scratching behind his ears until he relaxed, thenagainst all logicstarted purring. Loudly. Either my wife was mistaken, or Whiskers was the worlds first cat to purr post-castration.
My darling tiptoed over, babbling, “Is he hurt? Hes wheezing! Should I call an ambulance?”
Whiskers cracked one bleary eye, saw her, and tensed. I shooed the women out and took him to the kitchen.
We drank beer together, decompressing. I ranted about the trials of being the only man in a house full of women; Whiskers murred in solidarity. Soon, he sprawled belly-up on my knees, purring like an engine. Trust established, I tactfully checked his nethers. What I found dismayed me: no male equipment. None. Had never been any. On my lap sat a rather plump, very pregnant Persian *queen*. What my wife had “removed” were just bloody fur clumps.
We didnt go punch the seller for her deceit. Shared trauma bonded us. And Whiskers? Well, shes *Mittens* now. Yesterday, she had four kittens. Our home is full of children again.
**Lesson learned:** Always check the plumbing before jumping to conclusions. And never let my wife near scissors.
