For as long as I can remember, I've been enamored of, or rather, obsessed with, cats. Yeah, I'm the weird cat lady, but don't you worry because I'm damn proud of it. So finally for my 21st birthday, what's the only thing I want? (Other than a mixer that my boyfriend at the time "mysteriously" got me, then had to return because he had no money... I wasn't born yesterday, dumbass...) A CAT, OF COURSE! Sooo a few days after I got back from Australia, Mama Lori and I mosied on over to Berrrrrtrand, Neeeebraski on a mission to find me a furry little feline companion. Well well well, we pulled up to this crazydazy run-down farmhouse and I'm thinking "for crying out loud, did we just drive to Arkansas for a f*cking cat?" but instead of voicing my opinion, I made a bee-line for the farmhouse. I was greeted by two young children (who later greatly influenced my decision) who yanked me into the barn to check out their lot. We milled around for awhile, scouting out possible fur balls, but I couldn't seem to convince myself that this little goofy-looking calico (who had markings that strongly resembled Hitler's moustache) could be my new baby.
But then I saw it.
This adorable, fuzzy little creature was having breakfast and, leave it to me to be graceful about it, I literally pulled it from its mother's (for lack of better terms, but gross...) teet. It was love at first sight. I was sold. So the five-year-old girl did a gender check, which roughly translated into her lifting its leg and saying, "Yep, it's a girl!!" and relunctantly passed my little princess off to me. I felt a little like I was stealing candy from a baby, but baby's aren't even supposed to have candy, so I got over it in about .2 seconds. Sorry, kid.
So from the on, little "June" and I were attached at the hip, actually at the collarbone, where she preferred to sleep. A few months later, the aggressive little tigre went in to get its mama tubes tied and what do you think they found? No, not ovaries, no no no. After digging through her tum, they flipped her over and found a pair of what could only be described as caviar eggs that slightly resembled my cat's berries. After my slight breakdown and own personal identity crisis (my cat had been wearing a pink sparkly collar for God's sake), I decided to rename June to Jude and moved on with my life.
We spent one glorious (Sarah, Liz, Heidi and the 934 boys might tell you differently) year together until I moved to Denver and had to sacrifice my baby boy for my dream. Naturally, my intention was to get him back after sending him to live with my 94-year-old step-grandma (I've never seen someone--and by "someone" naturally I mean Jude--so angry with me in my life), but they got used to each other... until about a week ago.
Fast forward to yesterday. I was on my way to the gym to burn off the mini Snickers that seemed to have snuck into my desk during the day (I don't know where this crap comes from. One minute I'm innocently bouncing around on my ball, working on spreadsheets and the next, I having to dodge mini chocolate bars, yogurt covered raisins, and Paradise cookies being hurled at me right and left. I reeeeeaaaaally hate it...) when I got a phone call from my mom. I'm thinking she just wants to chat until I hear "the tone." "Oh hell" is all that runs through my head when she says, "There's something I want to talk to you about." Ok, I'm a "grown" woman of 22, but when she pulls that line on me, I still break out into a cold sweat and start racking my brain to think of what I possibly could have done wrong. "I had to put Jude down today..." Uhhhh. What? He's two. "For the past 10 (wtf?) days, he's been acting really aggressively toward Margaret and even attacked Lucille (I secretly laughed at that part. Goooood kitty.) and when I went over to Margaret's house this morning (this is where Lori sets the overly dramatic scene), I walked into her kitchen and found (found...) her sitting at the kitchen table with a chunk taken out of her arm..." Chunk. My God, let me just say, that is THE most disgusting word in the English language, closely followed by p*ssy (not with an I), which I absolutely refuse to say. "We had to get Margaret on antibiotics to clear any infection Jude's bite may have left." Uh huh... so all the rest of the conversation was "Blah blah blah, Margaret was afraid he was going to bite her face, blah blah blah, the vet said this, blah blah blah, he really was a good kitty, blah blah blah, kitty Heaven..." Sweet Jesus Mexico they killed my cat.
But then I saw it.
This adorable, fuzzy little creature was having breakfast and, leave it to me to be graceful about it, I literally pulled it from its mother's (for lack of better terms, but gross...) teet. It was love at first sight. I was sold. So the five-year-old girl did a gender check, which roughly translated into her lifting its leg and saying, "Yep, it's a girl!!" and relunctantly passed my little princess off to me. I felt a little like I was stealing candy from a baby, but baby's aren't even supposed to have candy, so I got over it in about .2 seconds. Sorry, kid.
So from the on, little "June" and I were attached at the hip, actually at the collarbone, where she preferred to sleep. A few months later, the aggressive little tigre went in to get its mama tubes tied and what do you think they found? No, not ovaries, no no no. After digging through her tum, they flipped her over and found a pair of what could only be described as caviar eggs that slightly resembled my cat's berries. After my slight breakdown and own personal identity crisis (my cat had been wearing a pink sparkly collar for God's sake), I decided to rename June to Jude and moved on with my life.
We spent one glorious (Sarah, Liz, Heidi and the 934 boys might tell you differently) year together until I moved to Denver and had to sacrifice my baby boy for my dream. Naturally, my intention was to get him back after sending him to live with my 94-year-old step-grandma (I've never seen someone--and by "someone" naturally I mean Jude--so angry with me in my life), but they got used to each other... until about a week ago.
Fast forward to yesterday. I was on my way to the gym to burn off the mini Snickers that seemed to have snuck into my desk during the day (I don't know where this crap comes from. One minute I'm innocently bouncing around on my ball, working on spreadsheets and the next, I having to dodge mini chocolate bars, yogurt covered raisins, and Paradise cookies being hurled at me right and left. I reeeeeaaaaally hate it...) when I got a phone call from my mom. I'm thinking she just wants to chat until I hear "the tone." "Oh hell" is all that runs through my head when she says, "There's something I want to talk to you about." Ok, I'm a "grown" woman of 22, but when she pulls that line on me, I still break out into a cold sweat and start racking my brain to think of what I possibly could have done wrong. "I had to put Jude down today..." Uhhhh. What? He's two. "For the past 10 (wtf?) days, he's been acting really aggressively toward Margaret and even attacked Lucille (I secretly laughed at that part. Goooood kitty.) and when I went over to Margaret's house this morning (this is where Lori sets the overly dramatic scene), I walked into her kitchen and found (found...) her sitting at the kitchen table with a chunk taken out of her arm..." Chunk. My God, let me just say, that is THE most disgusting word in the English language, closely followed by p*ssy (not with an I), which I absolutely refuse to say. "We had to get Margaret on antibiotics to clear any infection Jude's bite may have left." Uh huh... so all the rest of the conversation was "Blah blah blah, Margaret was afraid he was going to bite her face, blah blah blah, the vet said this, blah blah blah, he really was a good kitty, blah blah blah, kitty Heaven..." Sweet Jesus Mexico they killed my cat.
I hope little Jude has found a nice box bed frame in kitty Heaven in which to claw a big hole and sneak up into for naps. RIP Jude Hobbs.
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