Second verse...

drastically altered from the first.

Boots.

A cat named Boots.

I hate cliches so fucking much.

I tried to explain this to my Mother, obviously to no avail given the fact that this feline had ultimately been christened Boots. We get it, he's a black cat with adorable tufts of white around his paws, but isn't naming him solely based on his appearance sort of judgemental, if not racist? Shouldn't you get to know your pet's personality, and then come to a conclusion on what moniker best fits him?

But what does it matter, he was a cat.

I hate cats so fucking much.

There is no personality to a cat, they all have the exact same one. You can't hang out with your cat, take him for walks, teach him tricks. The most you require from a cat as a pet is that it exists when you come home, acting as a levee to the tides of loneliness that must surely be lapping at the shore of your life, evident by the fact that you have a cat. If the cat is present, then that is a score in the win column for the expectations of cat pet ownership. You've had a bad day at school, your girlfriend dumped you, and the mailman has yet again delivered your neighbors pornography, which wouldn't inherently be a bad thing if his tastes weren't so far flung and creepy  that you debate whether legal action is warranted, and you get to come home to the solace of cat.

"Oh, I'm so glad I'm home to the loving embrace of (cat). How was your day man? Come here so I can pet you and give you hugs and feel like I have some remote connection to another living thing!"

"Feed me."

"Ok, ok, I'll get you your food, you've had a long day laying around my apartment, spraying everywhere so that whenever I'm here I'm reminded of the fact that all these possessions are yours and that I'm merely here to operate a can opener. I wish I could hate you to death."

*Kitty proceeds to purr, rub against leg, and then bat around a sock with the most sickeningly efficient choreography of cute ever perceived by man. Had the cat not contained himself, and unleashed the raw power of its cute, your face would melt as if you simultaneously saw the face of God, looked in the Ark of the Covenant, and discovered the 32nd flavor of Baskin Robbins.

"Awwww."

God forbid that the damn thing be an outside cat. At that point you're merely taking care of an arrogant four legged hobo. The little bastard will show up for food, watter, maybe a few scratches in those hard to reach places, give you a purr, and be on his way. Occasionally, as a form of offering, he'll bring you dead things on your doorstep. "No need to go to the market, we've got enough dead bird to last us a fortnight! Thanks, Boots." If that cat is such an outstanding hunter, then why in the hell do I have to spend money on cat food? He's got the predator thing down.

Despite these reservations, though probably not as eloquently stated as my 12 year old self would've been able to convey (he REALLY loved the F-bomb... and booby-fart), I had found myself in 'possesion' of Boots the cat, or as much so as you can be of a stray that shows up at your house that you just start feeding, so he continues squatting.

As usual I get home and the damn thing is at the door waiting for food. He's gotten so impatient that now he's whining and making a fuss. I go down to give him a passive pet, and see that his left eye is dangling out of it's socket. He looks right at me with his good eye, and continues to whine, except now it's not annoying or grating or insistent, but desperate. I'd like to think the downfall of people being manipulated by pets is man's ability to project emotion onto animals, but to see that poor creature whining and in such pain, I was convinced that there was genuine sorrow in his eye. I ran inside and proceeded to pester my Mother for an hour before she'd go outside to look at the pitiful bastard, and of course the instant its suffering is apparent I'm berated for not getting a grown up sooner for such a serious matter.

We get in the car and drive to the vet, not expediently though. The maternal chauffeur is so concerned for safety that it  was a standing rule to never go faster than 5 miles  BELOW the speed limit, because of 'all the crazies'. Boots just lie in my lap, as each second I grew increasingly emotionally traumatized by the whole ordeal. Do I just pet him, try to comfort him? How do you comfort an eye dangling from the socket? Is that possible? Do I try to cradle the eye to take pressure off the optic nerves? Do i cover the gaping hole where an EYE is supposed to be located?

Clearly 7th grade biology is a travesty in our public school system for not having properly prepared their students for such trials.

 Apparently this is standard fair for a veterinarian. I gathered as much when he said "This is pretty standard fair for a veterinarian." I should hope so, since it's your job to fix animals.

Boots was repaired as best as possible, apparently we didn't have animal insurance, nor the private funds, to give him 'Six-Million Dollar Cat' capabilities, so he made due with half decent vision in his left eye for the remainder of his life.



I fucking hate cliches.

But I don't think a boy and his cat have ever really been one.

(*I know this is very rough, and the tonal shift is kind of harsh between the preface of the concept of cats as a species to my personal experience, but I'd really appreciate any feedback on this, cause I think I can really make it into something worthwhile)