The Dawn of the Neurotic Were-Cat.

My first post in many, many months, so be kind.

My neighbor is an idiot. Normally, it wouldn’t be a problem if one’s neighbor is an idiot, but it’s a problem for Nancy, Michael, and I. Nancy is my wife, Michael is her son (he’s 23), and I’m me. I’m pretty sure that I’m me, anyway. So my neighbor is an idiot, and her idiocy dances and sings on the other end of the row houses in which I live, which is precisely 7 flats away. The problem is that her nincompoopery (not a word) boils over into the neighborhood, and we’re a victim of it. She always borrowing goods and services from us; cat food, time on our phone (she has a cell phone, but the minutes always run out by about the 10th of the month), hooch (we rarely have it), cigarettes (I smoke a pipe, and nobody else smokes), food, and our time. I hate small talk, and she’s rife with it.

Not too long ago she asked me to fix her curtains. It seems that The Mooch Boob, my new name for her, tried to hang them, but put too many holes in the wall, so a piece of the plaster fell out. She tried to fill in the hole with toothpaste. So she asked me over to fix the problem. The toothpaste in the gap was a bit of surprise. She must have read somewhere that a nail-hole in the wall could be filled in with toothpaste. The kind of pin-hole left when you hang a picture. But you don’t use it to fill in a huge gap. You don’t see masons using it. I mean Jesus-Fucking-Christ. So, with my hands covered with Colgate and the smell of mint filling the air, I eventually fixed her curtains by putting a nail about an inch from the ceiling. When I was done, they were all askew, but she insisted that they were fine. They weren’t, but it gave me a chance to get the Hell out of there.

Not a big deal, right? I helped a neighbor, albeit one who is an idiot. It’s not her fault, and generally idiots need the most help, but she is not a nice idiot. I’m an idiot, too, but I’m not quite as stupid, but I’m appreciative and nice, and that goes a long way. She acts decrepit, like she’s 80, when she is actually 56. Perhaps being pickled half the time has crippled her ability to do little chores around the house. It didn’t stop her from filling a whole in the wall with toothpaste. But as the kids say today, “Whatever.” That’s actually something that young people do today that I don’t find annoying. The expression, whatever, is helpful for so many incidents, accidents, and just experiences in general. As in, “We’re going to be at war with terrorists forever, so the size of our military will never be cut. Whatever.” Or, “Obama is really fucking up. Whatever.” It’s sort of a combination of oi vey and c’est la vie. Yeah, it’s good. Everything else young people do today pisses me off, but that’s not relevant here.

Since the toothpaste incident, my services haven’t been called upon. Just the normal mooching, and bothering me when I trying to walk Annie (my dog), or just sit outside and smoke my pipe, and perhaps read. She approaches with inane babble and gossip. I despise gossip, yet I gossip about what an asshole she is, so I’m a hypocrite. One of many things that I am. Whatever.

Then Monday night happened. This nitwit’s cat got out and she asked me to go find and get him. So I said, “Yeah, sure.” I actually said that. So I went out into the night, perhaps 8pm, and found her cat howling at a stray cat who I take care of and feed. Her cat, Coby, was about to attack my stray cat (it makes sense), with vigor. As I said, I’m also an idiot, but less so, but still I got pissed off, as this stray gets bullied by every, “unfixed,” male cat in the neighborhood. So I grabbed her cat, who then turned his attack on me. And this cat was open for business. Ready to go. Wired for sound. Wound like a toy. Ready to go. What have you. So he attacked, whoa did he ever attack, my arm.

What happened next isn’t unlike a cat rodeo. It became a game of How Long Can I Hold On to a Ferocious Cat. As it turn out, like a rodeo, about 8 seconds. I ran to her flat and threw the cat into my neighbor’s open door. At one point I screamed like a guy getting his ass kicked, so to speak.  I was. Which brought out several neighbors. Blood streamed down my arm as I marched back into my apartment, leaving little drops of blood on the kitchen floor. And I just cleaned that floor the day before (I had to, as I accidentally knocked over the enormous water bowl I leave for my dog. The floor was flooded, so why not clean it?). Nancy tended to my wounds, a neighbor asked if I needed a ride to the hospital (very kind of her), which I declined, and I sat and watched some movie on TCM. The following day, my doctor fitted me in between appointments (sorry folks) and gave me an antibiotic and a wonderful pain killer. As I left the exam room, he said, “Come back on Friday so I can check it out again, you wouldn’t be the first person to have to go to the hospital for a cat bite. Nasty little creatures.” I thought, “They’re not nasty little creatures.” And that was that. No hospital stay was necessary, but my dislike for my neighbor was cemented. Nancy wanted to kill her, as did Michael, literally. She didn’t apologize. Whatever. But her mooching days are over, and no more affable little talks. She’s an outcast wretch.

Here’s a picture of the damage, the muscle deep bits, and the pill I have to take for two weeks.

Biggest pill I've ever taken. So there's that.

Biggest pill I’ve ever taken. So there’s that.

I’m not complaining. Well, I suppose I am. But the good news is that I saved my stray cat from a merciless attack. That cat has a name, “Blackie,” and the good news is that, after months of heinous attacks from other Felis silvestris catus, he was taken to a shelter and shall be adopted. But perhaps he wouldn’t have been if he had been attacked, and had fresh wounds. They may not have taken him. So maybe I did a little good in the world for a change.

So many pricks don’t take care of their cats. Whatever.

Here’s a picture or two or Blackie, the beat up stray cat who shall now find a home. He wasn’t beat up that night. He’s not a fighter. Yay.

I so love this cat.

I so love this cat.

013

Being cute

So that’s the story, of how my mooch-idiot neighbor’s cat got out, almost attacked the cat I love above, and how that unscratched cat got taken into an adoption center. There’s the possibility that, under a full moon, I’ll turn into a cat. Just a little cat. I’ll poop on the bathroom floor, scratch up the couch, and cuddle with Nancy.

Then I’ll turn back into the regular fat asshole I am.

Whatever.

dphclub.com_1225397661_cat_on_the_tree

 

 

 

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About Darren W. Lyle

I'm certifiably insane (I have the paperwork), collect old typewriters (got one?), am 43 years old, and am divorced. I've five pets, of course, and have thoughts. Some aren't good, some are. some are funny, some are just there, but I'll post them when I'm of a mind to.
This entry was posted in Autobiography, cats, depression, Mental Illness and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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