**Diary Entry**
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 silence, my wife and I decided to get a pet. We wanted something to fill the void our daughter left behindsomething to keep our parental instincts alive, to feed, train, take for walks, and clean up after. And secretly, I hoped this creature wouldnt snap at us, steal my cigarettes, or raid the fridge at midnight like she used to. We hadnt settled on what to get yet, planning to decide once we got there.
On Sunday, we went to the pet market. Near the entrance, adorable guinea pigs were on display. I glanced at my wife questioningly.
No, she cut in. Ours was land-dwelling.
The fish were too quiet, and the parrotschirpy and brightly colouredset off her bird-feather allergy. I fancied a monkey; its antics reminded me of our daughter during her teenage years. But my wife threatened to lie between us like a corpse if I brought one home, so I gave in. After all, Id known the monkey for barely five minutes, whereas I was rather attached to my wife.
That left dogs and cats. Dogs needed constant walks, and cats came with their own troublesI couldnt quite picture myself selling kittens outside the Tube station. So, a cat it was.
We spotted our cat immediately. He lay in a plexiglass tank, surrounded by clueless kittens nuzzling his fluffy belly with their damp noses. He was asleep. A sign on the tank read *Marmaduke*. The seller spun a sob story about his tough kittenhoodhow a dog hed grown up with nearly mauled him, leaving poor Marmaduke with no place in their home.
Outwardly, he was a handsome grey Persian, though without papers to confirm his squashed nose was a breed trait rather than a birth injury. His official name, according to the missing documents, was *Reginald*, but he responded to *Marmaduke* just fine. So we bought him.
The journey home was uneventfulMarmaduke dozed quietly under the car seat. In the hallway, smirking at my aversion to bodily mutilation, my wife asked, Youre sure hes not neutered?
I tensed. Not because I have anything against neuteringit just made me think of Quasimodo, cruelly disfigured by human hands. I splayed Marmaduke on the landing for a quick inspection. In the dim light, his fur-covered nether regions were hard to make out, his fluffy belly matted with clumps of fur. Summoning my inner zoophile, I ran a hand over his underside. He yowled, but everything seemed intact.
That evening, our daughter dropped by to raid the fridge. Spotting Marmaduke, she abandoned her half-eaten cake and pounced. She and my wife dragged him to the bath, scrubbed him with baby shampoo, swaddled him in a towel (mine, for some reason), and blow-dried him.
Once presentable, my wife began brushing him, snipping away tangled clumps. Marmaduke mewled irritably. I left them to it, retreating to the kitchen with a beer.
The peace shattered with a bloodcurdling screech and a crash. Glass tinkled, followed by a wail. I set down my bottle and hurried in. My wife sat on the sofa, rocking in rhythm with her sobs, hands outstretched, fresh scratches welling with blood. Scissors and tufts of fur littered the floor. Our daughter and I huddled around her.
What happened?
She gave us a miserable look and howled, Hishishis bollocks!
What?
Theyregone!
Gone where?
Off the cat!
Im no vet, but I doubted such things just fell off. Especially on cats.
Through her sobs, we struggled to piece together the disaster. Im a patient man, but nothing tests compassion like a wailing woman. Sometimes, mercy killing feels like the humane optionsparing her and everyone else the agony.
Finally, she unclenched her fists. On her bloody, tear-slick palms lay two fluffy clumps, their grey fur glistening red. While trimming a mat between his hind legs, Marmaduke had jerked. The scissors, aimed at the fur, had snipped what was beneath. And according to her, that *was* his bollocks.
Between sniffles, she explained how Marmaduke had roared in pain, clawed her hands, then bolted under the sofashattering a vase en route. Honestly, Id have done worse in his place. I told her as much. She wailed harder.
Armed with a mop, my daughter and I crawled after him. His amber eyes glowed in the dusty darkness. He growled. Even sausages couldnt coax him out. As one bloke to another, I understood.
My daughter prodded him toward the edge while I grabbed for limbs. The clever sod fought back, clawing the mop handle. Finally, he hooked onto it and inched forward.
God, what a sight. Wild yellow eyes, cobwebs on his whiskers, a tail coated in ancient dust. Half an hour with my wife had turned a regal Persian into a hobo castrato. The analogy depressed me.
I cradled him, scratching behind his ears until his tense limbs relaxed. Soon, he rumbled into a raspy purr. Oddwho purrs after losing the family jewels?
My wife tiptoed over, babbling, Is he hurt? Should I call an ambulance?
Marmaduke opened one bleary eye, saw her, and stiffened. He looked ready to croak. I shooed the women away and took him to the kitchen.
Over beers, we decompressed. I vented about living in a house of women; he murmured in sympathy. Eventually, he sprawled belly-up on my lap, purring soulfully. Trust established, I tactfully parted his legs for inspection.
The findings were grim. His manhood was missing. I took another swig and checked again. Nothing. It had never been there.
On my lap sat a rather large, very pregnant Persian *cat*. What my wife had removed were clumps of bloody fur.
We didnt confront the seller. Shared trauma bonded us. And Marmaduke? Well, we dont call him that anymore.
Yesterday, *Molly* gave birth to four fluffy kittens.
We have children in the house again.
