My baby boy is dead.
I hadn’t seen him in 4 or 5 days at feeding time, but I tried not to freak out about it, because he’s a feral, and they do tend to take mini-vacations from time to time (Callie, for instance, will disappear for 3 days and then pop up again like she never left), but every evening, at feeding time, I called his name, called “heeeere kitty-kitty, c’mon Smudge!” and he didn’t show up.
Tommie showed up, Callie, Ginger, Papi, Mama, and that obnoxious new tabby, but no Smudge.
I see these morons in this L’Hotel du Fucktards EVERY FUCKING TIME THAT I LEAVE MY APARTMENT, and nobody had said shit to me about that cat.
Even our “handy-man,” whom I had always considered the one decent human being in the management company’s employ, hadn’t said shit to me. Much less the quintuple-faced chalmatian raggedy-wig-wearing “Manager” of this hell-hole.
So today, after worrying all this time, but trying so hard NOT to worry (and being more than a little distracted by my own personal clusterfucks, and Mrs. Peggy, the one person who liked me in this dump, dying on Saturday), I asked the handyman if he’d seen Smudge lately, ’cause I haven’t seen him in a few days.
And right there, in the middle of the lobby, with the most casual of airs, with the absolute LEAST amount of concern that a human being could show for an animal (with the possible exception of the primate bastids who tortured Thor, as seen at Jesus’ General), Mr. Handy-Man announces, in front of Fred The Jigsaw-Puzzle Nut and The 400-lb. Twice-Convicted Child-Molester, “Oh, him? The little tabby and white one, with no collar? Yeah, he’s dead & gone.”
I stopped breathing.
“Yeah, he got caught-up in Mr. (whatever the fucktard’s name was)’s pickup truck motor, under the radiator last week. He’s dead.”
Like he’s telling me what time of fucking day that it is.
As I said, I’d always considered the handyman to be the singularly decent human being that works for the evil pentecostal white-trash cunts who run this place. He, more than most here, knows exactly how much effort, money, and love that I’ve invested in these feral cats, he knows that I always buy the mothballs to keep the cats from using the Chalmatian’s precious flower beds as litterboxes, he knows that I nursed Smudge back to health after a hellacious infection after he was neutered. He knows exactly how attached I am to these fucking cats.
And he just laughingly throws it out there like he’s saying “Nice weather outside!”
I go over and ask the Chalmatian, holding court with her First Deputy Crone (resident who gets free rent for being her “on-site contact person” who doesn’t do anything but lock up the laundry room every day as early as she can, so that she won’t miss her “stories” or her 8 or 9-times-weekly trips to church) and her never-in-school daughter: “Did y’all know that Smudge was dead? When did this happen? Why didn’t anybody tell me about this?”
“Ohhhh, yeahhhhhhh, we just figgahed that you would rather NOT KNOW, that was last week some time, he got caught-up in the fan belt…” blah blah blah LIE LIE LYING FUCKING CUNT WHORE COCKSUCKING HIDEOUS HAIRLESS-APE FAT FUCK MORON MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
“So, I guess that the concept of SIMPLE HUMAN COMPASSION OR COURTESY NEVER FUCKING ENTERED YOUR MIND, DID IT.”
And I cried all the way to the Fallen Uterus & Her Dick’s house. Only time that I’ve stopped is when I went into the grocery store to get Cuervo & margarita mix.
Feels like somebody ripped my fucking heart out through my sinuses.
Smudge was my baby. He was still a feral, he always would be, but that one week that we shared, when I was nursing him back to health and feeding him Pet Milk with a dropper, and he’d climb up onto my shoulder and nuzzle against my neck and purr and snore at the same time… I’d lay down for a nap, and he’d curl up right against my throat, as if the pulse in my jugular was like his mama’s heartbeat, and he’d purr and snore and snuggle up against me like the tamest little pet you ever saw.
I’ll never forget the day that I finally had to turn him loose, once he had recovered from his infection. He just hauled-ass out of that pet carrier and never looked back, and I cried like a fucking baby. Cats can really rip you up, if you let them, and sometimes they do it even if you try to keep them from it.
And he’s the only one who always let me pet him at feeding time, even if he’d try to be “tough” sometimes, in front of the other cats, or he was being moody or whatever it is that makes cats so fickle. But sooner or later, he’d let me pet him, if I was patient enough.
The last time that I was trapping the cats, the night that one of our resident crack whores made me lose that obnoxious boy tabby, I sat out in the truck most of the night, to try and keep the kittens and Papi and Mama (since she’d just dropped a litter and couldn’t be spayed yet) out of the traps, while trying to get that black cat & the other tabby female from the hospital across the street. I felt like Dyan Fossey, in a way, because once they forgot that I was sitting there watching them, they all reverted to their natural ways.
Smudge, Tommie, Ginger & Callie would frolic, stalk one another, pounce, wrestle, chase each other, and then gang up on Papi and he’d let them all climb all over him and chase his tail. Smudge was, even away from humans, the most affectionate of them all. That night, I saw him pet and nuzzle all of his siblings, when he wasn’t trying to tackle them like a linebacker, and with Papi, he was the most worshipful, adoring son that I’ve ever seen. Even in the daylight, when they were coming uphill for feeding time, as Papi hung back, waiting for me to leave the feeding area, Smudge would sometimes wait with him, snuggling up under his chin, purring and kissing around Papi’s mouth, and Papi would either do his aloof man-cat thing, or he’d lean down and nuzzle him back. I never thought that tomcats were capable of paternal feelings, much less of being the primary caregiver, but watching Papi with Smudge changed that permanently.
Just about every time that I ever ran into Mrs. Peggy in the hallway, she’d ask me about the cats. They were one of her great joys, as she’d sit by her window and watch them playing on the side lawn, and she was always smiling when she’d talk about them. She missed her own cats who’d died before she had to move into L’Hotel du Fucktards, and having a whole family of cats, even if she couldn’t pet them or have them inside, made her a little happier.
I kept trying to remember to take some pictures of Smudge & Tommie lately, because they’d hit a growth spurt, and had legs like gazelles, they were growing so fast. And I never fucking remembered to take the pictures with my cheap-crap p.o.s. film camera. And now I never will.
They couldn’t even be bothered to tell me that he died when it happened, so that I could’ve buried him like the beloved animal that he was. They probably threw him into a fucking dumpster. And I never got to say goodbye. I never got to pet his beautiful face, with those sleepy/cynical eyes, those gorgeous green/hazel eyes, that little smudgy smear across the bridge of his little pink nose. I never got to hold him again.
These heartless pieces of shit, who call themselves “christians,” who didn’t even tell me that Mrs. Peggy had died until I called the Chalmatian the following Monday about something totally unrelated — every one of these motherfuckers knew that Smudge had died, before Mrs. Peggy even died, and not one of them could be bothered to tell me.
This is what you get when your get trapped in the sigmoid colon of hell with a bunch of illiterate hairless apes who call themselves “christians” and you’re not one of the herd. They throw your baby into a fucking dumpster and don’t even bother to fucking TELL YOU.
If I ever hit the Powerball, the second thing that I’m going to do (after I repay, with interest, all of the wonderful online family who’ve helped me out so much) is hire a fucking arsonist to burn this hell-hole to the fucking ground, and disable all of the fucking sprinklers.
No, Mister NSA Blog-Monitoring Rat-Snitch Weasel Man, that’s not a legitimate threat, that’s the fantasy of a woman who knows that that one little cat had more “humanity” and soul in his little four-pound body than every single one of these mongoloid fucktards have COMBINED. If I didn’t have an active fantasy life, I’d probably get to be the criminal to which I aspire.
And no, the irony is not lost upon me, that Papi’s twin brother, a gorgeous little orange kitten (a year and a half ago), was killed in the engine of MY truck, and Dullard McDumbass lied to me then (told me that it was a dead possum stinking-up my truck) and then in our last big fight, revealed that I had murdered a beautiful little kitten because I didn’t know that he was inside my engine compartment. Because that’s the hateful piece of shit that Dullard McDumbass really was.
I will never forget Smudge. And I sure as hell won’t ever forget how these fucktards treated me about Smudge’s death, either.
They always say that death and bad things come in threes, and there ya go. First, the broken screw in my spine, with the lies & bullshit from Dr. Smartass and Alleged Lawyer-Boy, then Mrs. Peggy, now my baby Smudge.
And to top it all off, when I got back today from my daily pilgrimage to feed/fling catshit/spoil Biddy & Boy, Callie, Ginger, Papi, and the new obnoxious tabby were all waiting for me. And no matter how many times I called, Tommie didn’t show up to eat, and she’s usually the first or second one there. She was the first one to eat yesterday, when I was still calling for Smudge, and today, she won’t show up.
I’d have said something sooner about Smudge being MIA, but I know that most of y’all get as attached to these cats as I do, and I didn’t want to worry anybody needlessly, to have him pop up the next day. That’s what I get for thinking.