Objects of Desire

Without their testicles, aren’t male cats supposed to get fat and lazy and decidedly asexual? Someone needs to explain that to my sister’s cat, Max. He was fixed years ago, but recently he has developed a new found lust for life. It’s like someone slipped a little Cialis in his Meow Mix.

Usually when you think about a horny pet, you think about getting your leg humped by a dog. When I was young, my family had one of those dogs, the kind that would hump anything. Gus was the Dog Juan of the neighborhood, and even though he was a fat dachshund with a horrible flea problem, he still scored with all the bitches. I remember seeing him trying to mount an English sheepdog once. He could have used a step ladder, but somehow, he made it work with his short, stubby legs.
  
He didn’t even care if his paramour was another dog. He would hump guests in our house, once even going so far as to mount my mother’s date’s chest when he sat down. I guess Gus was a big fan of his cologne or his looks or something. Whatever the reason, he found that man irresistible, just as my mother did, which is even more disgusting than the dog humping him if you think about it, which I would prefer not to do. Gus also used to hump our cat. Our male cat. He was the kind of dog who would find a way to meet his needs even if it went against the grain of acceptable animal lovemaking protocol.

In his defense, Gus was not neutered, so he swung those plums of his proudly, strutting up and down the street while his balls slapped from side to side. But my sister’s cat, Max, well, his little kitty ball sack is supposedly empty. Is he regenerating his testicular tissue, or did they leave him a little something something when they snipped him?

It all started when my sister received a Slanket for Christmas a few years ago. A Slanket is the upscale version of a Snuggie, and hers was the same gray color as Max’s fur. Max was instantly attracted to it, and whoever would get all comfy under it could be guaranteed that Max would soon come round and mount the Slanket, humping it until the Slanket wearer shoved him away. If Max had balls, they most certainly would have been blue-gray from all that Slanket interruptus.

Max decided to branch out, looking for more worthy recipients of his passionate attention. His newest target is my brother in law’s dirty laundry. When no one is looking, Max sneaks into the closet and selects one of the articles of clothing from the laundry basket. He drags whatever he decides to seduce into the foyer, where he sweet talks it with a stream of annoying mews. He spoons it, holding it gently between his teeth and front paws, giving it a playful kick now and again. Then, when he thinks he’s provided enough foreplay to the t-shirt or boxer briefs or sock that he has chosen, he mounts it and, as they say, goes to town.

My sister, being what most people would describe as “normal,” does much in her power to discourage this behavior. She makes a point to limit Max’s access to articles of temptation by keeping up with the laundry, or, at the very least, keeping my brother in law’s closet door closed. If Max slips by her undetected, she will get up and take away the alluring garment, leaving Max sexually frustrated and thus reduced to taking care of himself the way human men wish they could but most, due to poor flexibility or small penis size, find themselves unable to. Even though Max would lick his wounds, as it were, he still had that sheepish look on his cat face, like he got caught doing something he knew he shouldn’t have done, but he just couldn’t help himself. If he was lucky enough to complete his dance of love, Max would slink off, leaving the frock feeling used and cheap.

When my family visited my sister’s family over the holidays, we were able to witness Max’s sexual addiction to the contents of the laundry basket. My youngest daughter thought he was so cute, the way he played with her uncle’s clothes. My teen thought it was gross. I found the whole display hilariously fascinating. My husband found me gross. 

I often look at my own pets and reflect on how odd it is to have animals living in one’s house, just walking around, doing what animals do. They don’t kill each other, but given the opportunity, they will snuff the life out of a centipede. They beg for food and eat like every bite is their last. They sleep peacefully, knowing they are safe. And in the case of Max, they make love like their very species depended on it. Just because your pet is spayed or neutered doesn’t mean he or she can’t ruin the reputation of your slippers or favorite sweater and freak out your children at the same time.

Here’s what I want to know. When my cats purr  and walk across me and knead me with their tender little paws, is it because they are showing affection, they think of me as their mother, or they want to cross an unspoken interspecial barrier? When I pet my kitty, am I sending him the wrong signal? I like my cats, but I don’t like like my cats. And poor Max, are his needs not being met to such a degree that he has to abuse the dirty laundry? Is that the cat equivalent of paying a hooker to take a dump on you?

It must be nice to be an animal. You eat when you’re hungry. You crap wherever because you feel like it. You can sleep just about anywhere or with anyone. And if you’re feeling randy, anything that’s laying about can do the trick: another animal, a leg, even a dirty t-shirt. What do you care? It’s not like you have to clean up afterwards. And if you choose to, hell, you’ve got a perfectly good tongue. Your sex tape might end up on YouTube, but no one will think less of you. We should all be so lucky.