Cat owners, and they are not necessarily dog haters, have different ideas of what is ‘gross’ from the moment the kitten learns how to clean herself. Case in point: a cold winter morning in South Dakota when I JUST can’t hold the water from the night before any longer, helped along its trail from the bladder by that ever so probing paw, that morning when I tip-toed in the bedroom, not allowing any more than a few inches of each foot to hit the ground, down the hallway, into the tiled (why is the one room in the apartment with no carpeting the one that you spend the most time barefoot in?) bathroom to relieve myself only to find the first gift of grooming: a hairball.

When I first encountered the specimen, however, it does not present itself as a benign upchucking of too much fur. No, I wondered, what rat aborted it’s fetus in my hallway and why it smells worse than the rotting bowels it came from? A rat fetus is all that I thought of while squealing, as the fetid membranous glob squished between my toes and my legally blind eyes were conjuring up images of bone and cartilage being pulverized by my not-so-svelte being. Alas, when I turned on the light in the coffin sized bathroom and got close enough to count the number of hairs said cat decided to expel, I realized that no animal was in its second trimester when it had an unfortunate abortion. This is when it hit me that what I thought was a good trait in my kitten, meticulous cleaning habits, may come back to haunt me.

The second time a hairy monster visits, I was eating, of course, a pasta dish. The sounds emanating from what I think is the 3rd stomach of the kitten, even though after dissecting Marmaduke, the unfortunate alley cat, in high school, I know damn good and well a cat’s bowels are nothing like a cow’s. I still wonder how far that hair ball must come from before it is ejected. Futilely, I say: “What is wrong with you?” as if the kitten will respond, even as if she looks as if her tail is coming out of her nose.

Instead, she continues to evoke the scene from “Marathon Man” when Dustin Hoffman is getting his non-anesthetized teeth extracted: all pain, no comfort and no end in sight. And yet when the ‘show’ is done, the kitten quickly sniffs it’s work and walks away as if she just witnessed a snowflake peacefully fall from the sky during an early winter snow shower, not like a piece of hair, mucus and bile a quarter of the size of the animal it was expelled from, laying there in all it’s gory brilliance.

Obviously, the meal is done. And of course, since the first time I had to clean up the mess it was late and I grabbed toilet paper, a LOT of toilet paper, to get rid of the mess, I do not remember how wet, gooey, sickening the stuff can be, so I grab 1, one, uno, piece of a paper towel. I nonchalantly saunter over to the prize, swipe at it and then, the feeling hits my fingers: warm, fibrous, and seemingly breathing. I swear it is breathing because of it’s heat, but I can’t show emotion, even though I live alone and the kitten could care less, because, there she is, cleaning AGAIN. So, I quickly take small steps to the trash can, drop it in and shudder. I then wonder to myself: how does that happen? But not too long because the cute little kitten has found a piece of paper, no bigger than a quarter, and how cute she is playing with something that didn’t cost me anything on my $8000.00/year salary!! Dinner is put away because the Alfredo sauce looks a little like what I just threw away.

The kitten grows, not huge mind you, but bigger. She never reaches over 11 pounds, but her propensity for grooming increases as she ages and especially when she embraces the newest member of the family, Newcastle, A.K.A. Newkie. Newkie acts as if she is from the place that the first dispelled rat abortion originated from. She is rambunctious, full of piss & vinegar, never shuts up & eats anything that is not nailed down or made of metal. The prima Donna, Azzi, despises Newkie from the moment the animal crate sets down in the living room. She gives me a crusty look that would curl Medusa’s snakes.

Azzi does not understand the need for Newkie. I give her all the attention she needs and there is no need to share, I’m sure she is thinking this in between cleaning licks. Newkie does not care and cannot feel this hateness vibe at all. She chases Azzi EVERYWHERE and feels the need to eat out of Azzi’s bowl and drink all her water. The third litter box seems to be working well, but there does not seem to be enough food to go around. For as aesthetically pleasing as Azzi is, Newkie is heading in the opposite direction. When she sits on her haunches, she looks as if she is a father penguin hatching the egg during the first week of gestation when the fat layer is at its optimal level.

A year passes. Azzi’s meticulous cleaning pattern has NOT inspired Newkie. She seems to smell quite often, and then, I notice it: the squat and pull across the living room carpet. There are three rooms in the home with carpet, and she always seems to go straight across my sight line, as if she thinks this new ‘trick’ will get her some extra catnip. In the end (no pun intended) it just adds an additional $15.00 onto the yearly vet bill to have her “anal glands relieved”. All the while, Azzi is not showing any signs of anal uncomfortablity. She is getting better & better at placing her ‘prizes’ only on carpeted areas.

The cat’s annual exam comes around. They are deemed healthy and happy. All those evenings outside that sometimes moved into nights when the repeated calls went unheard were good for their body compositions. However, something else is also growing in the cat’s bodies. It seems as if Azzi has taken to cleaning Newkie so that her smell does not overtake Azzi when they are cuddling. And by this point they cuddle all the time. I begin wonder if their sexuality has been influenced by all the Melissa Ferrick & Melissa Etheridge CD’s. Or maybe they are ‘just friends’ who like to sleep with each other.

But all this cleaning has brought me closer to Newkie because I can now stand to pet her since her fur resembles Azzi’s softness. It is pleasant. However, I made the mistake of rewarding her by presenting her with a feather tied to a stick. She now takes this as her way to annoy me since her stench is gone. She carries it with her to every corner of the home, including through the bars of my bed, which is wrought iron. She carries it through the footrest of my bed ONLY after midnight. Her cuteness is dissipating. Fortunately, she has calmed dramatically in the last year and Azzi has taken to chasing Newkie around the home, but because Azzi has been endowed with a brain, she ambushes and runs. It is enough to keep someone addicted to the Discovery channel tuned in for hours.

In the fall of 2004, it seems as if Azzi has not been herself for awhile. She is slower, less patient with Newkie, not as cuddly and likes to hide in the closet more and more (I thought she was out.) Then, one morning, there was no finding her. She usually comes running when I call, and especially when I get out my sandwich meat, her anticipatory meow echoes through the kitchen. Not today. I search, and search and implore my friends to assist me in the search. We find her in a spot I never thought of looking: behind the couch. She is fussy and bitchy, almost as if Newkie has overtaken her persona. I gently pick her up and do the baby speak to coax her out of her funk. No doing. She is very unreceptive to touch, unlike her usual self and wouldn’t allow me to touch her haunches.

She let out a few soft mews but wouldn’t respond normally. Finally, I looked her all over and… saw it. What I saw that night 9 years ago during the winter in South Dakota, the perceived rat fetus, had NOTHING on what was growing by leaps and bounds on her farthest nether regions. It was black and swollen and expanding exponentially up to her tail. She was not healthy (the understatement of the year). I promptly called the veterinarian to figure out what I should do. They asked the usual questions:

“Has she had problems defecating” Hmm… usually do not follow her around that much.

“Has she been outside?” Yep. “Do you stay with her the whole time?” Once again, do not stalk her.

“Could she have been bitten by something” I thought only those animals living in Australia could do this sort of damage.

“How has her eating habits been?” Well, at least one enjoys her food considerably.

“What does the site look like?” Ok, this is where the description begins. Please be advised that the following material is not appropriate for children:

“It is approximately a half-dollar in diameter (hoping I was speaking to someone older that 25 who actually knows what a half-dollar looks like); it is very dark in color, almost black. No rough spots and it has a peculiar smell, not putrid but not good, either. Sort of like leaves underneath a pile of plastic bags in the hot sun for a few days. It is swollen all the way around her anus and has developed a lump just below her tail. And it looks as if it is about ready to explode.”

The vet tech said “Bring her in tomorrow and we will keep her for observations.” So, I bring the one thing that I have had a sustained relationship with for over 9 years to the doctor’s office. She has an augmentation, a thing that looks as if it could have its own show on the Sci-Fi channel. The being that cuddled with me on those unbelievably cold South Dakota nights when I felt as if I had no one to talk to, to care for, to care for me. The being that followed me around unconditionally, that still loved me when I would fill up 2 large food bowls and a bucket of water, leave for 3 days and come back to no more than a few loud caterwaulings. This being was sick and there was nothing I could do.

Upon the trip to the office, I thought of many moments when she had kneaded deeper into my heart with every snuggle, every paw print, every look with those green eyes. The time when I thought I could carry a tune and she let me know, with a simple paw spank across my lips, that I was sadly mistaken. The time she cuddled in my comforter so deeply that I couldn’t find her for 4 hours, until I saw this little green eye peek out from under a crease in the blanket. When I left her in my car at my parent’s home in Kansas City in the middle of August, with no air conditioner on, she was wide-eyed, frantic looking with her tongue hanging out, panting like a puppy sitting in the middle of the Sahara dessert. Or, when she cuddled in my wet hair. It was a little quirk of hers and I would give anything to have her do that again.

I walked into the office, embracing Azzi with all my heart and soul. After a cursory glance by the vet tech, she assured me that they would call me after the initial examination. Luckily or not, I was very busy that entire day but couldn’t help wondering if I had or had not done something to keep the little kitten safe from harm. Could I have watched her better? Did I pick the right food? Did I clean out the litter box more? Should I have bought her a flea and tick collar? Did I not brush her enough? WHERE WAS SHE LICKING NEWKIE AT????

Eventually, I called the vet’s office and this is what they told me: my cat was a lucky recipient of an abscessed anal gland to the nth degree. This anal gland thing is utterly repulsive. However, the end product after the excising of the abscess left Azzi with an open wound bigger than a sausage patty, and just a bit less repulsive. More like one of those disks that the tribe in Africa puts in their lips or ears to increase their loveliness. Well, it did the opposite for this cat.

I was told to give her 1 ¼ antibiotics daily along with four squirts of this liquid that smelled as if it was over 70% alcohol directly on the atrocity around her anus, sending her into a Bridezilla-sized hissy fit. To remind everyone, this is the smart cat, the one who knows not to go into the basement for you will get locked in overnight. The one who knows that whenever the can opener operates it is NOT always going to be tuna or cat food. Her learning curve is almost vertical. Needless to say, she hid. She hid and serpentined well. She was evasive like Barry Sanders at his best.

And now, the pills and their placement in the hell hole called the mouth of the cat. Her teeth, which I never really gave thought to, become my sworn enemy. My hands looked as if I slipped and put my phalanges through a plate glass window. Of course, because of my incessant need to watch British films, I remembered the scene from “Trainspotting” when Tommy died because he contracted AIDS through heroin abuse and his kitten ‘killed’ him through toxoplasmosis from her fecal deposits on her claws. Yes, I was certain that I was going to die the same horrible death to the sounds of Iggy Popp dancing in my brain. Luckily, it was not meant to be, my untimely death, that is.

Instead, I began to play catch the cat four times a day. Bear in mind, this cat was 9 years old, but not fat or slothenly. No, she was spry, on the face of it catching the energy of Newkie and extremely diabolical in her paths that she took throughout the home. When I finally did catch her she would be fine for the first few seconds of petting and cajoling, but then, as soon as I turned her around to have her hideous open wound in my view, the rear claws kicked and attempted to make beef jerky out of my abdomen. Soon after, the spray would be used.

Oh dear lord. She would kick and meow and howl. And that was just the first squirt. After the second squirt she was gone. This is supposed to take place three more times during the day. It took two days before I was told by my significant other that perhaps I should entice her with treats, grab her, spray her, and more treats. Great idea! That lasted two days. This is theoretically going to happen for fourteen days. After a total of 96 hours, I was out of tricks. She was getting quicker, cagier in her attempt to stay away from the ‘bottle’.

Eventually, I took her back to the office to check up on the grotesqueness that was looking worse and worse. Her discarded scabs were showing up in unusual places: the carpet on my bathroom, my duvet cover, clothes left on the floor. My vet drew me a schematic of what took place for her illness to escalate to such heights: it seems as if anal glands in dogs and cats have a propensity to clog with anal secretions. And sometimes, the clogs cause an abscess to occur. This is what happened to Azzi.

The experience caused me to re-evaluate how I feel about my animals. I knew I loved them but I thought I would be ok if something tragic happened to one of them, but I was wrong. Even though I do not see myself as a cat lover as opposed to a dog hater, my cats have brought me peace, unconditional love and a soft fuzzy thing to remind me that speaking isn’t always a good thing.

This experience has also brought to the forefront the fact that if one despicable black thing creates itself on my cat’s butt once more, we are cutting it out the entire anal gland as soon as I set foot in that doctor’s office.

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