January 30, 2006

• Tribute to Toddy

  
  

   

  
  

  

  
  

   

  
  

  On Friday the 13^th my cat Todd died of colon cancer.  I could go into the whole speech about how Todd Was No Ordinary Cat or about That Time When Todd Pooped On The Couch, but really, those stories only seem to reduce his degree of feline excellence. Sure, Todd had, at one point in time, ceremoniously left a massive dump on our living room sofa, but come on, every cat does that.  It’s the unwritten code of catdom expansion.  Columbus left his mark on the New World; Todd left a present on the cushions.  However, don’t get Todd confused with every other domesticated kitten that ever left a few little pellets of love on their newfound territory.  Todd was the Cortez of the household cats.  Todd was the freaking Zeus of those sappy, milk-sipping bundles of pathetic fluff.  First God invented dark, light, land, sea, fish, and then he doth exclaimed “Let there be Toddy!”  And with that, Toddy burst forth from the fiery flames between heaven and hell, thundering through the churning oceans of the earth and wrestling with the tumultuous clouds that strangled the sky.  He galloped, he rocketed, he sprang, and with the robust swipe of his colossal paw, the dinosaurs were extinct.  “Meow,” he roared as we retrieved him from the mighty wrath of the pet store and taught the little bugger how to tinkle in a litter box. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Todd lived his life at my dad’s house in Pennsylvania, full of luxury and unlimited servings of meow mix.  It was for this reason that he inevitably grew up to have the physique of a sack of lard.  If Todd was a human being, he would have been Kenan Thompson with the fat suit.  Kristie Allie before the Jenny Craig effect. Todd was so fat he ate every last one of those ‘Yo momma’s so fat” jokes just for the sake of washing down the baby elephant he inhaled for a mid-afternoon snack.  Todd was so fat that when he stepped on a scale it read “to be continued”. Todd was so fat that, even if he really wanted to, he couldn’t roll in his grave. Actually, now that I think about it, he wasn’t all that fat. He was just…husky. A mere twenty-five solid pounds of love and cholesterol. 

  
  

   

  
  

  The only problem with Todd’s size was that he never really got used to the other earthly forces that were incomparably more powerful than him.  You see, Todd was invented before all that crap.  Long before man, animal, gravity, inertia, there existed the indestructible Todd. Quite frankly, he was a wild, agile beast.  He strutted over mountains, glided down rivers, soared through the sky.  It was during one of these flying excursions that an apple came out of nowhere and fell on his iron skull.  “Haha,” said God, “Isn’t gravity COOL??!” 

  
  

  “Shit,” said Todd, and proceeded to fall 30,000 feet and smack deep into the earth’s fairly dense crust.  Today we refer to this historic landmark as ‘The Pacific Ocean’. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Ever since that fateful fall, Todd had resorted to being a land dweller.  Not that he actually had a choice.  By the time he pulled himself back up onto his paws and dusted all the boulders off his back, inertia pulled a fast one, stating that “all objects at rest tend to stay at rest unless acted upon by an outside force.”  So, being that no force is more prodigious than the almighty Todd, he pretty much laid sprawled out in the exact same spot for greater half of the Cenozoic Era.  Eventually, we found him, shivering profusely on Toronto, Montreal, and Quebec.  The civilians were complaining, so we got Willy Wonka to split the poor guy up into little itty bitty molecule-sized bits and transport him to the suburbs of Pennsylvania.  From there, we built our house around him and admired that fact that he was just too goddamn fat to even walk up to eat from his food bowl. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Actually, only about 15% of the above story is in fact true.  Todd just told it to impress the ladies.  Nonetheless, it’s not that far-fetched.  Sir Toddy was and will always be the greatest pet I’ve ever had.  Not even a pet.  A brotha.  A homie.  Nearly half of the drawings and paintings I made during my childhood were inspired by him.  Practically all of my secrets over the past twelve and a half years have been whispered into his hairy ear.  Sure, he’s just another cat, but to me Todd was always one of the few stable things in my life.  No matter how much I grew, how much people changed, how many people left, my big old Todd would forever be the obese, observant, lazy turd of fluff he had always been.  Seeing him gave a similar sensation to going into my old house and taking a nap in my former room.  Only with Todd the police probably wouldn’t get involved. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Of course, I’ve had my fair share of other pets.  As a child, I always believed that we got these excess pets solely for the sake of keeping Todd company.  That basically meant I didn’t have to feed them, play with them, or acknowledge their existence in general because, whatever, that was all Todd’s job.  They’re Todd’s friends; Todd should take care of them.  They’re Todd’s sidekicks; let them be cute and fluffy on their own terms. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Needless to say, seven hermit crabs lost their lives.  Twenty-something goldfishes choked on their own poop.  My fourth grade class’s pet guinea pig, Gizmo, was nearly run over by a garbage truck.  When I was nine, I collected an entire jar of caterpillars and left it out in the blazing sun for two weeks.  I was the apathetic dictator of the house pet world.  The Abusive Shaker of the Fish in the Ziploc Baggie. Once in my possession, no one was safe.  Hardly anyone survived.  Except, of course, for the select four.

  
  

   

  
  

  Although Trixie died three years ago, I still consider her one of the survivors.  I took care of her and loved her like she was Todd’s long lost girlfriend.  And she was a cute cat, she really was.  She just had a…streak.  One minute she would be purring and nuzzling up against your knee, licking your fingers and playing contentedly with her bouncy ball, and then a second later she’d get injected with steroids and morph herself into the incredible hulk of feline bitchery, tearing apart the furniture, slashing and hissing vituperatively at anything with legs because move, bitch, Trixie has a hairball. 

  
  

   

  
  

  If Trixie took human form, she would probably be Paris Hilton with a fatal case of Tourette’s syndrome.  Anyone could tell she was an attractive cat.  Even I knew she was hot.  The problem was, she was more aware of it than anyone else, causing whatever superficially attractive qualities she possessed to simmer into a bubbling mound of stinking conceitedness.  Everyone in my house hated Trixie for that reason.  Everyone except Todd.  “Shittitsfuckcocksuckermotherfucker,” Trixie would babble in her native tongue, and Todd would respond by sympathetically nuzzling her neck and passing her a corner of his beloved blankey.  Maybe he truly did see something warm and inviting about her character.  I mean, you never know.  But this is Todd I’m talking about.  He doesn’t just lend his holy blanket out to whoever offers him free coupons to Petco.  Todd was in it for the goodies.  He totally was.  That fox.

  
  

   

  
  

  Trixie died of constipation. We found her sprawled out in her litter box, a look of sheer agony etched into her delicate features.  From the position of her tail and the depth of the scratches on the wall, it was evident that she went through quite a painful struggle.  At least, that’s what I told my friends in seventh grade because I had nothing better to talk about.  In reality, Trixie died of diabetes.  Constipation was just that much more appropriate for her personality.

  
  

   

  
  

  Now the most common misconception about Paris Hilton would be that she is as bad as it gets.  The scum at the bottom of the bucket of pond water.  The goose poop beneath the soles of your shoes.  Negative.  There is only one thing worse than Paris Hilton, only one creature more vile and idiotic than that tabloid-invading, orange-skinned whore.

  
  

   

  
  

  

  
  

   

  
  

  Her dog.

  
  

   

  
  

  Chihuahuas are misleading creatures.  You see them in People magazine, cuddling adoringly in their celebrity owner’s arms, basking in the lights of the paparazzi and angelically nibbling on their sparkly, pre-shrunk Marc Jacobs sweaters.  And then.  And then you buy one.  You buy one and, the second you let it loose to run free and roam around that in house of yours, it will find a butt and by golly, it will sniff it incessantly until you shoot the damn thing with a tranquilizer gun.  Meet Peanut the Chihuahua.  I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he was right behind you.

  
  

   

  
  

  Upon my monthly visits to my dad’s house, it became clear to me that Todd hated Peanut for two reasons.  For one, Todd was allegedly ass-raped by Peanut at least forty times an hour.  And that was after he was neutered.  For two, when Peanut wasn’t humping, he was sniffing.  It saddens me to admit that Todd spent the last three years of his existence with a horny Chihuahua magnetically attached to his rear. However, I guess that probably happened to all the great leaders of the universe.  In a way, I mean, if you squint kind of hard, Todd could be considered the Jesus of domesticated house pets.  True, he died of colon cancer, but I’m almost positive perverted Peanut played an important part in his sudden passing.  Now read that previous sentence five times fast without spitting. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Since Todd’s gone, I often wonder what exactly Peanut does in his free time.  I never thought I’d feel so sorry for the leg of a dinner table.

  
  

   

  
  

  While dear Toddy and his furry inferiors pranced about my dad’s house, my sister Abby and I resorted to getting pets for our own home.  I did this reluctantly; Abby welcomed the idea with open arms.  Why?  Because we weren’t about to get our own cat.  Once you go Todd you just never go back.  So, well, she wanted a dog.  And don’t get me wrong, I love dogs.  I’m just not what you’d consider to be your typical Dog Person.  There are Dog People and there are Cat People.  Dog People tend to be generally happy individuals that favor the moments when they have the opportunity to put their pet on a leash and take it for a stroll around the block.  They tend to enjoy games of Frisbee and that infamous sweaty canine smell lingering on practically every niche and crany of their homes.  They like it when that golden retriever slams them to the ground and slobbers its slimy tongue all over every bear patch of skin after a tiresome day at work.  They like that.  They look forward to that.  They cherish that.  And, to be honest, I don’t.  I’ve just always been a Cat Person.  It doesn’t mean I’m lacking in soul, it doesn’t mean I lost my mojo.  It just means I prefer calm, self-absorbed, cynical, lazy cats.  Granted, if I was an animal I’d probably be a caged parakeet, but my mom would never in hell let me keep a parakeet, so a cat is about as close as I’ll ever get to owning an animal that seems to almost identically mirror my personality.  At least Cat People typically don’t end up looking like cats. 

  
  

   

  
  

  I wish I could say the same for Dog People, but to be honest, it’s an accurate statement.  I came to this conclusion after we purchased this thing:

  
  

   

  
  

  

  
  

   

  
  

  This is Toby the Shih Tzu after his annual bath.  I don’t know whether he’s morphing into my mom or whether my mom’s going through some awkward midlife crisis phase, but sometimes the two look creepily similar.  Mostly because they nearly have the same haircut.   I would post a picture of my mom so you could compare, but I think that’s illegal and I kind of want to go out this weekend.

  
  

   

  
  

  One major fact you should know about Toby is that his lifelong goal is to achieve enlightenment.  This would be a highly respectable goal if it weren’t for the fact that enlightenment, in dog language, is a direct synonym for ‘the biting of one’s tail’.  To make a long rant short, Toby has an IQ of .4.  He has spent the majority of his existence chasing after his own behind, never once questioning the futility of this task.  There was even a point last month when he actually did reach his tail.  He finally managed to grip it in between his teeth and get a decent look at it. And once he did he just bit it too vigorously, spit it out, and continued chasing after it once more.  When he’s not doing that he’s eating underwear and hiding their remains in his evil lair under the dining room table. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Besides Toby, we have this goldfish thing I recently found in a bowl over our bookshelf.  Apparently, his name is Gandalf and he’s been living here for two years.  I’m not sure how or why he is here.  I also have absolutely no idea how the guy’s been living for so long, considering no one in this household has ever mentioned his name until this week and no one seems to take the responsibility in feeding him.  It kind of creeps me out.  First we have hidden goldfish, next time it’ll be garden gnomes.  Never trust your parents.

  
  

   

  
  

  Of course, out of all the pets I’ve ever had, Todd will always be the one I hold closest to my heart.  If Todd was still around, I’m pretty sure he’d either be sitting on my shoes or achieving world domination.  He was equivalent to Nickelodeon during my childhood; he was my emotional outlet when I didn’t feel like writing.  Todd was the walls at my dad’s house.  He saw everything with his glowing eyes, and it stayed in those glowing eyes and nowhere else.  Sometimes you don’t need an active participant to give you advice and assuage your emotional wounds.  Sometimes all you really need is a wallflower to just take it all in, just absorb it and keep it locked up and safe.  Sometimes all you need is someone who just simply listens to you.  For me, it was my cat Todd.  And if there actually is a cat heaven, I sincerely hope my dear Toddy gets that infinite supply of cat food he always wanted.

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  

  
  

   

  
  

   

  • 10:52 pm
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