The wedding was over, the guests had gone, and our daughter had moved in with her husband. The flat felt empty. After a week of moping in silence, my wife and I decided to buy a pet. We wanted something to fill the void left by our daughter, something to keep our parental instincts alivefeeding, training, taking it for walks, cleaning up after its mess. I also hoped that, unlike our daughter, this creature wouldnt talk back, nick my cigarettes, or rustle through the fridge at night. We hadnt settled on what to get yet, planning to decide on the spot.
That Sunday, we went to the pet market. Near the entrance, adorable guinea pigs were on display. I glanced at my wife.
“No good,” she said flatly. “Ours was land-dwelling.”
The fish were too quiet, and the parrotscolorful and chattytriggered her allergy to bird fluff. I fancied a monkey; its antics reminded me of our daughter during puberty. But my wife threatened to lie between us like a corpse, so I relented. After all, Id known the monkey for barely five minutes, and I was used to her.
That left dogs and cats. Dogs needed constant walks, and cats were troubleI couldnt picture myself hawking kittens outside the Tube. So, a cat it was.
We recognised our Cat at once. It lay in a plexiglass tank, surrounded by clumsy kittens nosing its fluffy belly with damp snouts. The Cat slept. A sign hung on the tank: “Muffin.” The seller spun a sob story about its rough kittenhoodhow a dog it had grown up with nearly mauled it, leaving the poor thing homeless.
Our chosen one was a pedigreed Persian, a handsome grey, though there were no papers to prove its squashed nose wasnt a birth defect but a breed trait. According to the missing documents, its proper name was “Reginald,” but it answered to Muffin. So, we bought it.
The ride home was uneventfulMuffin snuffled quietly under the car seat. In the hallway, knowing my stance on mutilation, my wife smirked and asked, “You sure its not neutered?”
I tensed. Not because I have anything against minorities, but a neutered cat reminded me of Quasimodo, cruelly disfigured by man. I splayed Muffin on the landing for a rudimentary inspection. In the dim light, its fur-covered nethers were invisible, its plush belly matted with tangled clumps. I summoned my inner zoophile and ran a hand along its underside. The cat yowled, but the equipment seemed intact.
That evening, our daughter raided the fridge. Spotting Muffin, she abandoned her half-eaten cake and pounced. She and her mother bundled it into the bath, scrubbed it with baby shampoo, swaddled it, and blow-dried itusing my towel, for some reason.
Once presentable, my wife began combing, snipping away mats. Muffin mewled irritably. I left them to it, retreating to the kitchen with a beer.
A bloodcurdling yowl and crash shattered the peace. Glass tinkled, followed by a wail. I set my bottle down and went to investigate. My wife sat on the sofa, rocking, her hands crisscrossed with scratches. Scissors and tufts of fur lay scattered. Our daughter and I huddled around her.
“What happened?”
She gazed at us with hollow eyes and howled, “Baaaalllls.”
“What balls?”
“Theyvesniiiiiped them off!”
“Whose?”
“The caaaat!”
Im no medic, but I doubted such things just popped off. Especially on cats.
Through tears, we pieced together the ordeal. As my wife trimmed the mats between its legs, Muffin jerked. The scissors, aimed at a clump, sheared off whatever was in the way. And that, she swore, was its balls.
The cat had roared, vanished under the couchafter clawing her hands bloodyand smashed a vase en route. Frankly, Id have bitten heads off and trashed the flat in its place. I said as much. She wailed louder.
Armed with a mop, my daughter and I crawled under the sofa. Amber eyes glowed in the dust. Muffin growled. Sausage bribes failed. As one bloke to another, I understood.
My daughter prodded it toward us while I grappled for limbs. The beast was cunning, refusing to yield, thrashing and scarring the mop handle. Finally, it hooked its claws in and slid closer.
God, what a sight. Wild yellow eyes, cobwebbed whiskers, a tail draped in ancient dust. In half an hour, my wife had turned a regal Persian into a hobo eunuch. The parallel depressed me.
I cradled the stiff creature, scratching behind its ears until it relaxed into a raspy purr. It rumbled loudly, eyes half-lidded. Surely, youd have to be a proper berk to purr post-castration.
My wife tiptoed over, spouting nonsense: “Is he hurt? Hes wheezing! Should I call an ambulance?”
The cat cracked a bleary eye, spotted her, and tensed. It mightve actually wheezed then. I shooed the women away and carried Muffin to the kitchen.
We drank beer and decompressed. I vented about living in a house of women; Muffin murmured sympathetically. Soon, it sprawled belly-up on my lap, purring warmly. Trust invited intimacyI tactfully parted its legs. I had to know if my wifes butchery had ruined its prospects.
The inspection was bleak. Primary male attributes were absent. I took another swig and checked again. Nothing. There never had been. On my lap sat a rather large, pretty Persian cat. With a round belly. What my wife had hacked off were just bloody fur clumps.
We didnt throttle the seller for the swindle. Shared trauma had bonded us. And Muffins no longer Muffin. Yesterday, Daisy birthed four fluffy kittens. Our home has children again.
