Those with scientific backgrounds probably looked at the title to this post and thought they were way ahead of me. Chemical reactions in enclosed spaces over time can cause an excess of heat which left unattended can burst into flame.
Yes – you’re very smart.
This has nothing to do with that.
You see it turns out that male cats – especially those that still have all their giblets, don’t just pee to relieve themselves. They pee to mark what they own – their cat bed, the carpeted climby thing they ignore because climbing the bookcase offers more stuff to knock down, their littler box pad which smells far too good after their person washes it, and, of course, everything their person wears. It’s all the same to the cat. If an item is part of their life, they own it, and if they own it (and they have their giblets,) they mark it.
It also turns out that people with cats – even those with male cats – even those whose male cats have all their giblets, get so used to the smell of cat urine that they can’t smell it anymore. Even when everything they wear has been thoroughly marked with giblet fortified male cat urine.
So then I enter the picture.
A long time ago, I had a job. It wasn’t like my job with Amalgamated Monster; it was a real job, with actually human co-workers and enough money at the end of each week to make me obese with Pop Tarts. (the glory years!)
This was before I learned that real jobs are traps, sort of like those egg crates are for pre-chickens. They look comfortable and Pop-Tart intensive, but it all ends up leaving you on the hot griddle of middle-class angst.
A real job is like a boat. It’s something you want your best friend to have, but it’s a real pain in the neck to have yourself.
Another thing is like that – a house. I thought I was being real smart. I got a two-family house. That way I could live in one part and let the tenant pay the mortgage.
So there I was in my egg-carton job with my money-trap two-family house, still blissfully unaware of the griddle that I was approaching with increasing velocity.
“Have Headley do it,” said a co-worker. “He’s outspoken.”
I felt the first waft of heat from the impending griddle.
“Yeah,” said another one not quite quietly enough because I heard her clearly, “nobody likes him anyway.
“Headley,” said Geraldine Bustenfuller, my manager, “I need to ask you a favor.”
“Are there Pop Tarts involved?” I asked – though I doubted I would be that fortunate.
“You probably noticed Carmena,” said Geraldine, ignoring my Pop Tart question.
“We need you to tell her about her odor problem.”
“You remember that job description you signed without looking at it?”
“It was in there?”
“May I read it now?”
That day I told Carmena what I knew about male cats. She smelled better after that –got more popular around the office as everyone avoided me for being so cruel.
After three deadbeat tenants, Carmena rented my apartment. She hadn’t moved her stuff in when she had an accident with the stove – leaving a pile of cardboard on top and turning the burners to high.
Shortly after losing the house, I lost the job, and became pretty much the man I am today – an admitted loser, but at least off the griddle of middle-aged angst.
Cats - evil beasts. But don't blog without them.