“Are you here yet?” he asked.
Wait, what?
“I told you earlier, I’m not coming.”
“Seriously? I thought you were joking. I’m so disappointed.”
I can’t lie; part of me was extremely satisfied that he’d sent his earlier response because he didn’t think I was being serious. And another part of me was even more satisfied that I had disappointed him—the way he had disappointed me.
Another text came through: “I really am disappointed,” he said.
“Sounds good,” I replied.
It Ain’t Over till the Cat Lady Sings
So I had a cat, Mischief, for sixteen years. The same cat—not a whole bunch of different cats over that span of time. I mean, I’m not insane.
Having a cat didn’t do much for my dating life. You see, when you’re single and you have a dog, people think you’re cool and you love to hike. When you’re single and you have a cat, people think you’re a loser and you love to watch the Lifetime network. I would just like to clarify that both of those stereotypes are 100 percent accurate. The only time I like to hike is when I’m filling out the “activities” portion of an online dating profile; in reality, I prefer spin classes. Sorry, I’ve seen a lot more chubby hikers than I have spinners. And if the Lifetime network didn’t exist, then as far as I’m concerned, neither should Sundays.
Anyway, the struggle of being a single woman and owning a cat is real. However, I didn’t purposely go out and get my cat. I didn’t put on my Shape-up Skechers one day and head out to the cat store. I inherited my cat from a boyfriend who died in a car accident. But I’m not going to get into that (again).
I realize that some people disagree when you say having a pet is similar to having a child. Well guess what: I cared for Mischief for sixteen years. He relied on me for food, water, and shelter. I took him to get his shots. I cared for him when he was sick and I cleaned up after him when he pooped. Plus, cats don’t grow out of it and start using the toilet like kids—like most kids—do. I mean, I have seen a couple of YouTube videos with cats using the toilet but my point is, having a pet is similar to having a child except before they can grow up, go to college, and start paying you back for all the hard work you put in, they die.
I’ve never liked parents who act like their kids are awesome all the time, so I’m not going to do that when I talk about my cat: my cat was an asshole. He had a deep, loud meow that he only let out late at night when I was trying to sleep, but even worse: when I was trying to sleep with a gentleman caller. I don’t know if it was some sort of protective instinct because he knew I used to date his dad or if he just had some sort of beef with my having company in general, but it usually ended with the guy saying, “What the fuck is wrong with your cat?” then leaving because he had to “get a good night’s sleep,” which for the first several years I always knew was bullshit because most of the guys I had sex with in my early twenties were unemployed.
My cat also fancied himself quite the foodie. Although he would eat his perfectly fit-for-cats cat food all day long, the second I broke out any food for myself, he would approach me in a manner that seemed harmless, then out of nowhere his paw would come up and swipe my entire meal. He just took food out of my hand. It didn’t matter what it was either. He wasn’t one of those cats who thought he wanted your food, then once he got it realized that he didn’t. He always really, really wanted it. He obviously preferred when I was hungover because he’d get a delicious meal like a Quarter Pounder or Taco Bell. But he’d pretty much eat anything. One time I left a bag of Ruffles open on my couch while I went to grab water (Ruffles are very salty) and came back to find half of his body inside the bag. When I pulled him out, he was eating a Ruffle and looking at me like I was the asshole. I swear I’ve even seen him eat sauerkraut. He didn’t give a shit what it was, he just wanted food.
This was a huge date killer when someone was over and I cooked—well, ordered Chinese food. After Mischief had made off with half of the guy’s lo mein and an egg roll, I’d apologize and lock the little bastard (the cat, not the guy) in my bedroom so we could finish our meal in peace and play that super-fun “in bed” game with our fortune cookies. Mischief never went quietly, though. He’d meow in this deep, throaty tone that my friend Sarah Tilley dubbed his “Barry White” and stick his paw under the door to rattle it. It was like living with a lion. I’d just turn the volume up on the TV louder and louder in an attempt to drown him out while my dinner guest looked at me in horror, asking if I was sure my cat was okay.
“He’s fine,” I’d assure him. “I think he’s just possessed with the spirit of his previous owner.”
“Um, what was that?” the guy would ask.
“This guy I was dating. He died while we were dating and I kept the cat. Can you pass the fried rice?”
“He died while you were dating?”
“Yeah, but it was a long time ago, it’s fine. It’s not like I killed him or anything!” I’d say and laugh.
Those nights Mischief let me sleep in peace, because I would inevitably end up spending the rest of the night alone.
Now, I don’t want you to think my cat sat around eating fast food all day, because then you’ll think he wasn’t healthy and I gave him diabetes. At least that’s what happened one night when I made a joke about his being a loud fat-ass when I was on Chelsea Lately. Here’s the actual e-mail I received the day after the show (the typos belong to the person who wrote it):
Sarah:
Why get a cat if you’re not going to take good care of it and learn how to care for it properly? It’s obese because of your stupidity. It didn’t do it by itself.
Animals food needs to be restricted just as for any human. Look at Chuy! Look at the people who can’t even get out of bed! You’re doing the same fucking thing to a precious animal who can’t change what YOU do to it!!!
Food 24/7 also creates crystals in the kidneys which block the urethra.
Why don’t you EDUCATE yourself about an animal BEFORE you decide to get one, instead of abusing the poor thing.
You need to take the cat to the Humane Society and get it proper care since you don’t give a shit
Fucking cunt. You should be arrested for animal abuse.
Sad thing is. . . . . you’ll probably make “jokes” about it instead of being a caring, compassionate, loving person.
Just shows what a pathetic excuse for a human being you are.
Wilson
Nice, huh?
And here’s my reply:
Dear Wilson,
First of all, is that true about the urethra? Because I also eat food and I’m almost positive I have a urethra and I never want anything that’s not in liquid form coming out of it.
Next: I’ve had my cat for sixteen years, and he’s as healthy and happy as can be. The vet says his weight is normal, but thanks for your input! He’s also very loud, which I did make a joke about because I’m a fucking comedian—or as you called it, a “cunt.”
Oh, and I didn’t “go get” a cat, I inherited my cat from a boyfriend who died suddenly and tragically in a car accident and I have taken loving care of him ever since. That’s a true story! You can read all about that and more in my New York Times bestseller Life as I Blow It.
PS: Thanks for watching the show!!!!
Sarah
In reality, yes, my cat was a pain in the ass, and yes, he enjoyed stealing food. But I took really good care of him. I mean, he lived, nice and healthy, for sixteen years. I monitored his human-food intake. He only got a bite here and there. You think I’d let anyone eat all of my Big Mac? Never. I’ve ended relationships over shit like that.
Mischief also opened cabinets in my hallway in the middle of the night with his man paws; when I’d get up to go to the bathroom or get a glass of water, I’d bang into them and wake up with giant bruises on my knee (bruises are ne
ver good unless they are the kind you get from adult fun time). But he did some really cool things, too, like curl up on my lap when I would watch TV. He loved baseball and General Hospital, just like me. Sometimes he would sleep on my chest, which can be creepy when you wake up but for the most part is pretty awesome. He was awesome. And I took good care of him because as fucking annoying as he was at times, I loved him. I assume my parents feel the same way about me.
So when he started to act differently I took him to the vet. He was constipated—we shared many of the same issues—and not eating much. The “not eating” was what really worried me: that’s like me telling my friends I don’t want any alcohol; they’d know something was way off.
The vet ran some tests and told me Mischief had kidney failure. She said it’s what most older cats eventually develop. It’s terminal, but there are some things you can do for them to make them comfortable enough to live happily for a while longer. The first one of those “things” the vet told me was that I was going to need to administer an IV to my cat daily.
“Excuse me?”
She took me into a room and showed me how to do it. How to stick a big fat needle into his back—that he didn’t really seem to feel, but whatever, she was sticking a needle in my fucking cat! I wanted to punch her in the face. She kept it there while a certain amount of liquid something poured into his body and apparently hydrated him. I cried while she did it and I cried when she told me I was going to have to do it.
“Fuck that noise,” I told her. “Can’t I bring him in here and have you guys do it?”
“Sure,” she said. “But most cats don’t enjoy going to the vet and it would be easier on you to do it at home. You’d have to bring him in here every day for the rest of his life.”
She was right. Mischief hated going to the vet. I used to have to go downstairs, crack open the door on his little carrier, and position it just so, so that when I got him downstairs I could shove him in it before he had the chance to realize what was happening. Otherwise, the second he saw it he’d dart under the bed and out of my reach. Then when I finally did get him in it, he’d do his deep loud meow, but with an extra tone of misery added in that made me feel like I was an animal abuser.
“Fuck that noise,” I repeated. “I’ll see you every day for the rest of his life.”
After three days of taking him to the vet, both of us crying the whole way (I realized then that I also sound like Barry White when I’m upset), I knew I was going to have to learn to do it myself.
So, I sucked it up. The vet explained to me that we’d both get used to it and soon enough I’d be able to administer the IV painlessly. I thanked her and told her that she was probably pretty wrong about that.
So every morning, I woke up, went into the kitchen, hung the IV bag onto a hanger on a cabinet, pulled my cat into my arms, and stuck a needle in him. I’ve never felt so single.
The vet was right, though; we both got used to it. I think Mischief knew it made him feel better. He even got to where he was purring when I’d do it. I assume this is the same kind of bonding that happens with heroin addicts.
A week or so later I took him in for a follow-up, and the next day the vet called to let me know that he probably didn’t have much longer. She said to keep doing what I was doing, gave me like four more medications, and told me what to look out for so that when it was time to let him go I would “know.”
So now not only was I jamming an IV into him, I was trying to get him to swallow various pills—cats love having pills tossed down their throats—and putting some weird shit into his food. At this point it felt like I was taking care of my dying grandfather.
It was all getting to be a lot; he had some good days where he felt okay, but the bad days started to take over until one day I found him peeing right beside the litter box. Not inside it—beside it. The vet told me this was one of those “signs.” I don’t know why they do that, I just know she said he would and he did. When I found him in action, he looked up at me—I expected him to feel bad about peeing on the floor, so I was ready to let him know that I knew it wasn’t his fault. Instead he just looked at me like, “What? I’m peeing,” and sauntered off. Even near death he could still be an asshole, and I appreciated that about him.
I let the vet know what was happening and she softly suggested it was time. She said that often people hold on to pets for too long because they don’t want to let them go, but in reality it’s unfair to the animal, who can’t make decisions for himself. Although, I kind of felt like Mischief made the decision for himself the day he walked by me and pooped right next to my foot. He was letting me know it was time. Five minutes after that, he lay on my chest and purred. I was afraid he was going to poop again right then and there, which, just for the record, is something I’ve never let any man do. But he didn’t. He just lay there so I’d know he still loved me. I loved him, too—so I had to do what was right.
I’ve never had to put a pet to sleep before; I grew up in Arkansas. Most of our pets got run over by some jackass going too fast on a dirt road. My stepdad always buried them in our pasture (yeah, we had a pasture—I’m very worldly) and that was that. So this was all very new to me.
“I’VE NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE, I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO DO,” I wailed to the vet. God bless that woman, that can’t be an easy job, but she was so nice and patient with me. She explained that I could bring him in and they could do it there or she could come to my home and do it there. I didn’t even know they did that.
“THAT ONE, I WANNA DO THAT ONE,” I sobbed. I couldn’t imagine driving him to his death—it seemed so moblike. This other way he could pass away at home like a respected senior citizen should.
I have some pretty great friends, I have to say. The night the vet was coming to put him down, three of them came over. We drank wine, shared silly memories about Mischief (they’ve known him a long time, too), and gave him tons of love. He was pretty stoked about all the attention; he perked up and was like, “What’s up, ladies?” taking full advantage.
When the vet knocked on my door, we all just stared at each other. The girls offered to let her in but I said I would do it; I could do it. She came up and softly explained to me the quick procedure; she’d give him a shot that he would barely feel to sedate him, then after a couple of minutes, when he was definitely unable to feel anything, she’d give him the shot that would make his little heart stop.
I put him on his favorite blanket in his favorite spot (right next to the refrigerator), and the vet gave him the sedative. He looked at all of us, inquisitive, tired—but he seemed relaxed. He also seemed to know it was time to go—maybe that sounds crazy, but whatever, my cat died, so give me a fucking break.
When she knew he was fully sedated, she gently told me it was time. I started sobbing, harder than I even knew that I could—uncontrollable, childlike sobbing—Barry White in full effect. My friends were crying, too; it was a mess. I nodded to the vet, letting her know to go ahead, and she did. I stared at Mischief the whole time, looking in his eyes, telling him I loved him and that I was so sorry I couldn’t do anything else to make him feel better. I waited for his eyes to close but they never did, then the vet explained to me that they wouldn’t, which was pretty fucking creepy. And I swear to God I saw a tear fall out of the corner of his eye. I swear. Later I figured out that it was most likely one of my own tears that landed on his face because, you know, cats can’t cry.
After a few minutes, she listened to his heartbeat, looked up at me, and said, “I’m so sorry.” Uncontrollable sobbing again. That was it; my little buddy was gone.
I slept with his collar on my wrist for a couple of nights. It made me feel better, except when I’d turn in my sleep and it would jingle and wake me up, which probably sounds annoying but it wasn’t too terrible for someone who once had to sleep in an electronic home monitoring bracelet.
To this day, I still feel sad; I come h
ome and he’s not at the door waiting for me like he was for sixteen years. I go into my kitchen and he doesn’t follow me, screaming at me, letting me know he wants some fucking turkey. I’ve even put on weight since he’s been gone—not because I miss him but because I’m finally able to finish all of my meals myself now. It sucks. Living alone is one thing when you have a pet to care for, but when you lose that pet, there’s an emptiness that makes you question your decision to be alone. That said, if you talk about that in public, you just sound like a crazy cat lady. But I won’t let it stop me; Mischief deserves more respect than that.
I wanted to tell that story and I guess I wanted to give him a shout-out. I really felt like he earned his own chapter in this book. I did a lot of joking around about him, but obviously, I loved him. You can’t really have something for sixteen years and not love it. Except maybe herpes.
The No-Sunshine State
One weekend I was performing in Fort Lauderdale for the first time, and I was looking forward to some serious sunshine and poolside time during the day. It was March and it was Florida . . . hello, sun!
It rained the entire time.
The comedy club there is part of a complex set way off by itself. There are restaurants and a casino, but once you’re there, you’re there. And if it’s raining, you’re fucked.
Due to the rain, “pool” time quickly turned into “sit in my room” time. It easily could’ve turned into “play blackjack in the casino” time, but gambling during the day makes me feel like a degenerate. Unless of course I’m in Vegas, in which case all bets are off (or on).
The shows were pretty rowdy; in fact, one night a girl in the audience was so obnoxious she ended up getting kicked out. In the process, she also punched the bouncer in the face. Fucking Florida. Mind you, this all occurred while I was onstage trying to be hilarious—my job is fun, but it isn’t always easy.
On the second night, I ended up flirting, from the stage, with a very hot guy in the audience. I do that from time to time, but it’s not meant to be taken all that seriously. However, in this case, hot guy took me pretty seriously and waited for me during my book signing after the show. I spotted him in line and started to get kind of nervous; he seemed pretty locked in on me and now that he was up close, I was noticing that he was really ripped—he was basically just a giant pair of biceps.
Has Anyone Seen My Pants? Page 9
