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 silence, my wife and I decided to get a pet. We wanted something that could fill the void our daughter had leftsomething to keep our parental instincts alive: feeding, training, taking it for walks, and cleaning up after it. I also secretly hoped that, unlike our daughter, this animal wouldnt talk back, steal my cigarettes, or raid the fridge at night. We hadnt settled on what to get yet, planning to decide once we got there.
On Sunday, we headed to a pet market near Camden. Near the entrance, adorable guinea pigs were on display. I glanced at my wife questioningly.
No good, she shut me down. Ours was land-dwelling.
Fish were too quiet, and the parrotscolourful and chattymade her allergic to bird fluff. A mischievous monkey caught my eye, its antics reminding me of our daughter during her teenage years. But my wife threatened to lie between us like a corpse if I even considered it, so I backed down. After all, Id only known the monkey for five minutes, whereas I was used to her.
That left dogs and cats. Dogs needed constant walks, and cats came with their own hasslesI couldnt picture myself selling kittens outside the Tube station. So, a cat it was.
We spotted our Cat immediately. He lay in a plexiglass enclosure, surrounded by clueless kittens who nuzzled his fluffy belly with wet noses while he dozed. A sign on the tank read: Muffin. The seller told a sob story about his rough kittenhoodhow the family dog, raised alongside him, nearly mauled him, leaving the poor thing homeless.
Our chosen one was a striking grey Persian, though the lack of papers made me wonder if his squashed nose was a breed trait or an old injury. According to the missing documents, his formal name was Sir Reginald, but he answered to Muffin. So, we bought him.
The journey home went smoothlyMuffin snuffled quietly under the car seat. But in the hallway, my wife, ever the joker, smirked and asked, Youre sure hes not neutered?
I stiffened. Not because I have anything against gender fluidity, but a neutered cat always reminds me of Quasimodomutilated by human cruelty. I sprawled Muffin on the stairwell for a quick inspection. In the dim light, his furry nether regions were hard to see, and his tummy was matted with clumps of fur. Summoning my inner zoophile, I ran a hand along his underside. He yowled, but everything seemed intact.
Later that day, our daughter dropped by to raid the fridge. Spotting Muffin, she abandoned her half-eaten cake and pounced on him. She and her mother bathed him with baby shampoo, swaddled him in a towel (mine, for some reason), and blow-dried him.
Once he was presentable, my wife began grooming him, snipping away matted fur. Muffin mewled unhappily. I left them to it, retreating to the kitchen with a beer.
Thenchaos. A bloodcurdling screech, a crash, and the sound of shattering glass. I set down my bottle and hurried in. My wife sat on the sofa, rocking back and forth, hands outstretched, covered in bloody scratches. Scissors and tufts of fur littered the floor. Our daughter and I crowded around her.
What happened?
She gave us a miserable look and wailed, Theyre gone!
Whats gone?
Hishishis bollocks!
Whose?!
The cats!
Im no vet, but I doubted testicles just fell off. Especially a cats.
Through her sobs, we finally pieced it together. While trimming the mats between his legs, Muffin jerkedand my wife, mid-snip, accidentally clipped what she swore were his family jewels.
The cat had bolted under the sofa, clawing her hands bloody and smashing a vase on the way. Honestly, if someone did that to me, Id have bitten their head off and trashed the place. I said as much. She wailed louder.
Armed with a mop, my daughter and I crawled under the sofa. Deep in the dust, a pair of amber eyes glowed. Muffin growled. No amount of coaxing or sausages worked. As one bloke to another, I understood.
After a struggle, we dragged him out. He was a wreckwild-eyed, dust-coated, his fur tangled. In half an hour, my wife had turned a regal Persian into a hobo eunuch. I cradled him, scratching behind his ears until his growls turned to raspy purrs.
My wife hovered, wringing her hands. Is he hurt? Should I call a vet?
Muffin cracked one bleary eye, saw her, and went rigid. I shooed them away and took him to the kitchen.
We shared a beer and decompressed. I ranted about living with women; he purred in solidarity. Eventually, he sprawled belly-up on my lap. Curiosity got the better of meI checked under his fur.
No missing parts. No male anatomy at all.
On my lap sat a very large, very pregnant Persian cat. What my wife had cut off were just bloody clumps of fur.
We didnt go back to throttle the seller. Shared trauma had bonded us. And Muffin didnt suit her anymore.
Yesterday, Daisy gave birth to four fluffy kittens. Our home has children again.
