George is my cat. He’s about a year old (which would put him at about fifteen in cat years, so in reality he’s at the whiny, pimply-faced teenager chapter of his life) and has lived with me for about six months now, having come from an animal shelter in East New York aka ghetto central. He very much prefers his new home here in Prospect Heights and is a very good cat—very affectionate, playful, entertaining and stupid looking at all the right moments and overall I am very glad to have him. However, over the course of our time living together, I have developed a few concerns about the little bugger:

1. He’s become a fat-assed little fucker.
2. He acts like he’s the Liberace of felines.

I recall his first day home, poking his head out off the cardboard box, all groggy from getting his nuts chopped off. He was small and skinny. Today, he’s still pint-sized, but his ass takes up several parking spaces. I can actually grab on to folds of lard that hang off his gut. When he parks himself on the floor his butt just seems to flop out, all blubbery and shit. I’ve tried putting him on a diet, but his ass seems to want to expand like Walmart. A big, gay Walmart.

Why do I think my cat is gay? Is it the way he prances about like Carson from Queer Eye? Is it the way he wears his fur like like Dolce couture? Is it his curious interest in shows like Project Runway? I’m not sure what ties it all together and leads me to this assumption, but I am certain George is a definite shade of lavender, a friend of Dorothy always ready to go Brokeback on a bowl of wet food or a pile of catnip. He’s a fat, gay, eunuch, but he’s mine.

To see George is all his fat, gay glory, you can view my rather huge (and growing) gallery on Flickr. Scratch that fat, gay feline itch.

Toni from New Jersey asks:

Q:

Where can I go to get my cat exorcised?

My cat is really freaky sometimes. For instance, everywhere I went in my apartment this morning, she was right there in front of me but I never saw her get up and move from one place to the other. I went to turn off the TV and she was on the window perch, then went to the kitchen and she was on top of the fridge, then to my room, there she was.. bathroom, right there on the counter. Plus her eyes are perfect circles and she can just stare at you for an hour with out flinching. Also, I’m pretty sure she can turn her head 360 degrees no problem.

A: Toni, I think you better be sitting down before you read much further, because I’ve got some news for you.

All cats are the slaves of Satan.

I have to say I’m a bit surprised that you’ve failed to pick up on this yet. I mean, dealing with your Satanic feline is soooo 2005. Welcome to the real world, Toni. You are the proud owner of furry and fanged beast, born in unholiness and owing all allegiance to an omnipotent worm, located in the metaphysical underworld, who is bent on eating your soul. Makes you want to just hug the fuzzy little fuckers silly, huh?

I vividly recall the first day I learned my cats were in fact dark servants of Lucifer. I awoke in the middle of the night one evening bothered by strange dreams. I arose and headed for the kitchen to get a glass of water. As I neared the living room, I noticed a low and guttural chanting noise that sounded strangely similar to Latin, but I dismissed it as someone’s car stereo coming from the street.

You can probably imagine my surprise when upon entering the living room, I found it lit by what seemed like hundreds of tiny candles. Standing in a chalk circle and surrounded by strange and esoteric symbols written on the floor, were my two cats, robed and hooded in black silk.

On what looked like a tiny version off a church altar that was positioned between them, there was a dead mouse, it’s blood seemingly drained and it’s entrails removed and arranged about the area in some dark and twisted pattern whose meaning was beyond my ability to comprehend.

Since that evening, my life has completely changed. I now know that I am not the proud owner of two cats, but rather the host to a demonic duo of parasitic doom-worshippers, who spend their days sleeping and their nights drinking mouse blood, chanting to Satan and perching on my chest, sucking out bits of my soul as I lie asleep in bed.

I live in sheer terror, naturally.

As to what advice I could give you, all I can say is—Run. Run fast. Run hard. Don’t look behind you and don’t stop running till your legs give out beneath you and when that happens, drag yourself further by your hands. Your immortal soul is in grave danger! No priest can help you. No exorcism can combat such insidious and maddening evil. There is no hope. All you can do is try to escape. It’s too late for me. Save yourself.

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About four months ago, when my two cats first came home from the city animal shelter, both of the fuzzy little fuckers became sick, sneezing and coughing up shit everywhere. When a veterinarian looked them over, he pronounced them as both having the feline herpes virus , assured me that they would both be fine and proscribed each a bottle of antibiotics.

Now before you start making assumptions that could get me arrested or my little buddies taken away, I had nothing to do with this infection. I used a condom every single time, I swear.

Just kidding…kinda.

When the vet told me this, naturally I began to make excuses about age of consent, my lost childhood and the fact that I was the product of a broken home, etc. The doctor assured me that the virus doesn’t affect humans and that a good 95% of shelter cats carry it, some never exhibiting any symptoms. Outbreaks are usually brought on by stress, such as a new cat in the mix, a change of address, getting molested by their owners (once again…kidding) or any other big change that alters their normal routines.

I noted all this information, went home, squirted some antibiotics down their throats and all was well until about a week ago when Gracie, the six year-old started spewing hunks of phlegm left and right, sitting around the apartment, loudly wheezing and chugging up great clots of lung butter. At times, I found myself tempted to take a pipe cleaner to her. It was pretty disgusting. I mean, who wants to get it on with a overactive walking lung booger? Even some Serious Barry White can’t remedy that one…d’oh, still kidding there, put the phone down.

A second trip to the vet found her to be in the throes of a pretty aggressive outbreak. The vet actually was able to open her mouth and show me a real, live herpes sore. There was no denying it. My fuzzy little buddy was a dirty little whore. I had been wondering what all those midnight phone calls and litter boxes stinking of Old Spice were about. I was about to demand a paternity test and haul her ass onto Springer but the doc managed to calm me down. He proscribed some more antibiotics along with daily doses of vitamins to bolster her immune system, seeing as she seems to be more susceptible to outbreaks, likely due to her age.

So, I’m back to holding her down while I squirt things down her throat. Read into that one all you want, I’m innocent, I swear.