We used to have a cat named Mike. We still have the same cat, but the other day, Jon felt that Mike was entering his angsty, adolescent, goth phase and needed a new goth name.

As we drifted off to sleep, I came up with Dusty Sorrow. It suits him perfectly, and I will tell you why in song. Please, feel free to sing along to the tune of Desperado. (Believe it or not, I thought of the name days before the song idea)

Dusty Sorrow, why don’t you come to your senses?
You been hidin’ ‘neath the floorboards for so long now
Oh you’re a skittish one
But I know that you got your reasons
These groomers that are tweezing you
Can hurt you somehow.

Don’t you draw those freshly clipped claws, boy
They’re useless and unstable
You know your shiny teeth are always your best bet

Now it seems to me some crappy things
Have been laid upon your table
But I’m sorry that a new penis you can’t get

Dusty Sorrow, whoa you ain’t getting any cleaner
Your pain and your hunger should be drivin’ you from that hole
And freedom, oh freedom well, that just ain’t happ’nin’
Your prison is walking through this house as you please

Don’t your feet get dirty on that filthy pine?
And its hours past your dinnertime
Its hard to tell if you’re just wasting the day
Or if you’re losing air and getting poked with nails
Ain’t it funny how you seem angry either way?

Dusty Sorrow, why don’t you come to your senses?
Come out from the floorboards, don’t make me wait
It may be scary, but there’s a mummy above you
You better let your mummy love you

(let your mummy love you)

You better let your mummy love you
Before you get even more filthy under there

***

Mike has had a tough week. It started two Saturdays ago with a trip to the groomer and a well-executed “Lion Cut”. The groomer noticed he seemed to be having dribbling issues and what with the whole penectomy and new pee-hole, you really have to be careful about such things. When we got home from the groomers, we decided he needed to go to the vet and got him back into his carrier. As we left, I realized I had forgotten my keys, so Jon put the carrier down and unlocked the front door so I could go get them. Unfortunately, he put Mike’s carrier on the steps.

You see where this is going.

Luckily it was the bottom step, but when Mike shifted his weight and down the carrier went. He only rolled half a revolution, but it seemed to be enough to really piss him off. There was growling and hissing.

And at the vet, well, they did vet things and tried to get some samples but his bladder was empty. They sent us home with two weeks worth of liquid antibiotics that Jon feels are banana-flavored. I don’t know where anyone got the idea that banana-flavored medicine is just the thing for cats, but twice a day, Mike is grabbed and given a mouthful of what is essentially liquefied Circus Peanuts.

So is it any wonder that when Jon’s brother walked into the kitchen last Saturday carrying a cooler that looks very much like a cat carrier, Mike freaked out and dove into a hole under the kitchen sink? And stayed under there, with the rusty nails poking him and the dirt and grime of probably 80 or more years of kitchen grossness from 2 in the afternoon until 1 in the morning?

Eventually, he got himself into a spot where he actually couldn’t get out. (We got pictures by reaching in as far as we could and snapping in the dark.) We removed large parts of the wall that were boarded up from previous work done on the pipes. For hours, I sweet talked him with my kitty voice and a can of tuna, he cried, and finally, I was able to get him to move to the most open part of the hole. He could only get his head and one paw out, so I had to maneuver him in a way that looked very much like childbirth. I was able to get my hand down his side to lift out his other shoulder and paw, then carefully guided him out. Then he went right for the plate of tuna.

So, I guess if you ever need any midwifery advice for a wooden house and a cat, let me know.

P.S. We fixed the hole under the sink.