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 the silence, my wife and I decided to get a pet. We wanted something that could fill the void left by our daughtersomething to keep our parental instincts alive: feeding, training, taking it for walks, and cleaning up after its messes. I also secretly hoped that, unlike our daughter, this creature wouldnt talk back, steal my cigarettes, or raid the fridge at 3 a.m. We hadnt settled on what to get yet, figuring wed decide on the spot.
That Sunday, we headed to Camden Market. Near the entrance, adorable guinea pigs were on display. I gave my wife a hopeful look.
“No way,” she shot down. “Ours was terrestrial.”
The fish were too quiet, and the parrotscolourful and chattytriggered her bird-feather allergy. I fancied a marmoset; its antics reminded me of our daughter during her teenage years. But my wife vowed to lie between us like a corpse if I brought it home, so I relented. After all, Id known the monkey for five minutes, but Id grown rather attached to my wife.
That left dogs and cats. Dogs needed constant walking, and cats came with their own hasslesI couldnt quite picture myself selling kittens outside the Tube. So, a cat it was.
We recognized our Cat immediately. He lounged in a plexiglass enclosure, surrounded by clueless kittens who kept prodding his fluffy belly with their damp little noses. The Cat slept. A sign on the tank read: “Muffin.” The seller spun a sob story about his rough kittenhoodhow the family dog, having grown up with him, nearly mauled him, leaving the poor chap homeless.
Our pick was a pedigreed Persian with a gorgeous silver coat. There were no papers to confirm his squashed nose was a breed trait and not, say, the result of a tragic birth. According to his (missing) documents, his official name was “Sir Reginald,” but he responded just fine to “Muffin.” So, we bought him.
The ride home was uneventfulMuffin 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 same-sex partnerships, but a neutered cat always struck me as a Quasimodocruelly disfigured by humans. I splayed Muffin on the landing for a quick urological exam. In the dim light, his furry nether regions were hard to spot, and his plush belly was a tangle of matted fur. Summoning my inner zoophile, I ran a hand along his underside. The cat yowled, but his equipment seemed intact.
That evening, our daughter swung by for a fridge raid. Spotting Muffin, she abandoned her half-eaten Victoria sponge and pounced on him. Together with her mother, they dunked him in the bath, scrubbed him with baby shampoo, swaddled him in (my) towel, and blow-dried him.
Once presentable, my wife began combing him, snipping away matted tufts. Muffin grumbled. I left them to it and retreated to the kitchen with a lager.
The domestic bliss shattered with a blood-curdling yowl and a crash. Glass tinkled, followed by wailing. I set down my bottle and investigated. My wife sat on the sofa, rocking in time with her sobs, her hands crisscrossed with bloody scratches. Scissors and tufts of fur littered the floor. Our daughter and I hovered over her.
“What happened?”
She stared at us, eyes brimming with despair, and wailed, “B-b-balls!”
“What balls?”
“Theyre g-g-gone!”
“From where?”
“The c-c-cat!”
Now, Im no vet, but Im fairly certain such things dont just fall off. Especially not on cats.
Amid her bawling, we struggled to piece together the ordeal. Being a kind man, I briefly fantasised about throttling her. Theres something about a weeping woman that makes me want to put her out of her miserylike a gravely wounded soldier.
Finally, she unclenched her fists. On her tear-and-blood-smeared palms sat two fluffy clumps, their silver fur glistening with droplets of red. Turns out, while trimming the mats between his hind legs, Muffin jerked. The scissors, already aimed at a knot, snipped whatever was in their path. And according to her, that “whatever” was his balls.
Through snot and tears, we gathered that Muffin had roared in pain, clawed her hands to ribbons, and bolted under the sofataking out a vase en route. Frankly, Id have bitten someones head off and trashed the flat in his place. I said as much. She wailed harder.
Armed with a mop, my daughter and I belly-crawled across the floor. Under the sofa, in the dustiest corner, glowed the amber eyes of our freshly minted eunuch. He growled. Sausage bribes and sweet talk got no response. As one bloke to another, I understood.
My daughter prodded him toward the edge with the mop while I tried grabbing any protruding limb. Muffin, sharp as a tack, stayed tense, swiping at the handle and leaving deep gouges. Finally, he latched onto the mop and rode it closer. Good Lord, what a sight! Wild yellow eyes, cobwebs on his whiskers, a tail draped in ancient dust bunnies. In half an hour, my wife had transformed a dapper Persian into a hobo castrato. The analogy depressed me.
I cradled the stiff, silent beast, scratching behind his ears until he relaxed with a raspy purr. Oddwho purrs post-castration? My wife tiptoed over and blathered, “Is he okay? Hes wheezing! Should I call an ambulance?”
Muffin cracked one bleary eye, spotted his tormentor, and tensed. I shooed the women away and carried him to the kitchen.
We decompressed over a beer. I vented about life in a house full of women; he murmured sympathetically. Soon, he sprawled belly-up on my lap, purring like a motor. Heart-to-hearts led to delicate questions. Tactfully, I parted his legsjust to check if his future fatherhood was compromised. The inspection was grim: no primary male attributes remained. Another swig of beer, another rummage through his fur. Nothing. In fact, it seemed thered never been anything there. On my lap sat a rather large, rather pregnant Persian *cat*. What my wife had “snipped off” were just bloody tufts of matted fur.
We didnt go punch the seller for her deceit. Shared trauma had bonded us. And Muffin? Well, shes not called Muffin anymore. Yesterday, Daisy gave birth to four fluffy kittens. Our home has children again.
