Stop me if you’ve heard this one.

No, you haven’t. You’d have killed yourself long before now; some knowledge simply cannot inhabit the mind of a human being of normal and wholesome inclinations without causing it to warp into pathalogical and destructive antipathies.

Let me tell you the story of a man and his cat. A man, his cat-sitter, his cat, and his cat’s dildo.

My ex told me this story, and he was friends with the cat-sitter. At least, I pray to God he was and this wasn’t just another “uh, it happened to my friend, yeah, my friend” thing. I already know he has low standards…

I suggest you fortify yourself with at least a quart of Fin du Monde, for surely you do not want to read this sober. It is a sign of the coming apocalypse, non? as surely as Britney‘s twatflashes are, although I don’t recall them being specifically mentioned in the Book of Revelations, now that I come to think of it, although I’m sure that’s only because the author was too polite and delicate to mention them. You know how those Old Testamentators are.

So this fellow, he lived in Montreal, and he was going back home for Christmas. He had the ticket, he had the time, he had the happy and welcoming family awaiting his return.

He also had … a cat.

So, as is the way of things, he required a cat-sitter. Not to sit upon the cat, although in retrospect if he’d gotten a really fat one this would have solved so many, many problems right there, but no; rather, to wait upon the cat. To feed it and brush it and pet it and let it in when it wanted and also, it must be said, out when it wanted, too. It was a very spoiled cat.

So this fellow finds a friend of his who is living, much like myself, in somewhat hovellish circumstances, one where the telling of the ancient Christmas story brings not so much joy and good will as raw envy that the straw in the stable was at least dry and it was spacious enough to fit a family of three plus all those wise men, not to mention the donkey.

No word on whether it was a Longdonkey.

He offers to his enhovelled friend the chance to move to his somewhat more luxurious digs for the duration of the holiday season, and his friend predictably jumps at the chance. On the day, he arrives bright eyed, bushy-tailed, and willing to make a big fuss over the feline in residence, although he cannot be said to be all that thrilled about this particular kind of pussy. Still, he knows what side his bread is foie gras-ed on, and resolves to play nice with Fluffy or Tiger or Snowball, as the case may be.

He gets the grand tour: here’s the bathroom, here’s the fridge, here’s the remote, here’s the catfood. So far, so good. The homeowner picks up his suitcase, preparatory to frappé-ing la rue. “Wait,” says he, “There’s one more thing I have to show you.” And he walks over to a kitchen drawer, opens it, and pulls out a popsicle stick.

“Foo-Foo isn’t spayed, and she’s in heat, so if you wouldn’t mind, she likes it if you just do this…”

and he bends down with the popsicle stick in his hand and does the predictable thing to Foo-Foo who does, it must be admitted, appear to like it very much indeed.

Well, thinks the cat-sitter, I have a choice here. I can retain my personal dignity and tell my friend that I refuse to sexually service his cat. And then I can then give him back the keys and take the #40 back to my coldwater studio by the train tracks.

He quite enjoyed his two weeks at the penthouse, and by all accounts Foo-Foo did as well.

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