Tough Life

Our cat, Mister Matty Marbles, has a very difficult life.  When he’s not stretching out his massive body — he is, as feline experts would say, basically a Winnebago motor home with fur — on the couch, forcing me to sit on the floor, he sometimes must waddle five whole feet to the kitchen, where I hand-feed him kitty treats and rub his belly as he purrs loudly enough to wake up people in Peru.  He has no responsibilities.  No bills to pay.  No moments of guilt wondering, “Will this Meox Mix go to my thighs?” or of anxiety debating whether he should accept the Facebook friend request from his boss.  Yes, SUCH a difficult life that he has no choice but to lash out in curious ways, namely:  shitting on our floor and attacking our other poor cat, Marcy.

Which is why Mr. Candy took him to the vet to get kitty Prozac this weekend.

Yes!  Kitty Prozac!  Hey, we’ve got to do something to curb his inner demons before he goes to even more extreme measures, like piercing his tongue and listening to Morrissey.

This isn’t a decision we took lightly.  In fact, Matty has considered our entire home his litter box for almost five years now; a delightful habit he started at four years of age, out of the blue with no life changes or additions to provoke it.  He was all, “Yeah, um, guys?  I’m tired of walking to the bathroom to do my business.  Where I’m standing right now will do just fine, thanks.”

Urination problems have not been as common, thank goodness, but there WAS a Gucci purse incident that I still can’t discuss without getting choked up.

WHY the Gucci, God, WHY?  Yet the ten-year-old fake Louis Vuitton lives on, piss-free.

Sometimes life is not fair.

Although Matty could not be more sweet to us and the baby, his territorial issues have extended to Marcy who is, I’m not ashamed to admit, my favorite cat.  I know parents aren’t supposed to pick favorites, but c’mon.  This one’s a no-brainer.  And don’t tell me that if YOU had two otherwise seemingly healthy children, one of whom pooped on your floor, that you wouldn’t have a favorite, too.  Many people are fascinated by Matty because he is a cool-looking cat; frankly, it’s because of his looks that we’ve tolerated his behavior as much as we have.  Yup, the good-looking ones really do get away with a lot.  But I slip an extra treat to Marcy every once in a while, especially after Matty chases her, stuns her with a headbutt drop, then sinks his claws into her — just to show her who’s boss.  More than a few times I’ve come home to discover half of Marcy’s fur strewn about the floor, with the other half still on her body hiding under a bed.  Meanwhile, I’ll find Matty looking like he does in that picture, innocent as can be, just chilling, texting and watching the latest episode of “American Idol.”

Marcy?  Marcy who…?

We have tried a cat behaviorist. Vet examinations.  Multiple litter boxes.  “Time outs.”  (Yes, as in, “Go sit over there and think about what you’ve done, young man!”)  Dietary adjustments.  Super-special, super-expensive litter.  Various sprays.  The healing power of time.  NOTHING has helped, with the exception of a bottle of wine — for Mr. Candy and me.  So it is only at our wits’ end do we find ourselves with Prozac bottle in-hand.  A Prozac bottle with our CAT’S NAME ON IT.

How very L.A., no?

If this doesn’t work, kitty rehab is obviously the next step.  “Hi, my name is Matty Marbles, and I’m a poop-a-holic…”