We have a cat. A cat my son named Wolf after my husband examined the kitten and pronounced him male. We deferred to my husband’s wisdom about such things for a variety of reasons. One, he was raised on a farm and schooled in the ways of animal husbandry. He’s located and snipped off more testicles in his time than I have probably even seen.

Two, my husband himself has a set of man grapes which I happen to know he has fondled a time or two and that fact alone should automatically grant him the authority to identify similiar looking objects, even if they are covered in fur.

Needless to say, if Boo said the cat was a boy, the cat was a boy. Except lately, this boy cat has been acting suspiciously feminine. More precisely, this boy cat has been yowling like a b*tch in heat who needs to get laid.

I may happen to be an authority on being in heat and this is something I can easily identify as my lovely Boo often works away from home for long stretches of a time leaving me and my needs entirely up to my own devices.

Unless Wolf was acting like a transgendered feline just to mess with our minds, the constant rubbing up against anything that was stationary and the plaintive cries for relief meant that our boy cat was in actuality a girl cat. With needs.

So I casually mentioned this to my husband who then proceeded to scoff at me like I’m some dumbass city slicker and said, “Nooo, Wolf is a boy, Tanis. I checked.”

Raising my eyebrow, I looked at the miserable cat and then looked at Boo and told him, “Dude, I know a horny pus*y when I see one. Show me these magical testicles you swear he has.”

Boo, not liking the idea of his wife so openly challenging basic Farm Skills 101…Identifying Testicles on All Fourlegged Animals…huffed over, snatched Wolf and spread his hind legs to show me his man grapes.

“Hang on a second, there is a lot of fur here,” he said as he searched for the invisible nuts.

“There may be a lot of fur, but there is also a kitty vagina,” I laughed.

“No. That’s the…” Boo flipped the cat over and then stopped in midsentence. “Shit. I swear I felt two little balls when I brought him home.”

With a big I-Told-You-So grin, I giggled, “Some manly farmer you are. Confusing fur balls with man grapes.”

Since the discovery of Wolf’s…er, Wolfee’s uterus, the mystery for her obnoxious screaming during every minute of the day has been identified. We have a cat in heat. A cat who wants a kitty daddy.

I, however, have no desire to be the mother hen to a den full of new born baby kittens. I can barely remember to feed my own children, let alone having to worry about the health and welfare of such wee furballs. Not to mention, new kittens mean cuteness which means I’d inevitably be sucked in to keeping even more cats in the house which would mean more shredded furniture and more scattered kitty treats found in the nooks and crannies of my house as the dog likes to scavenge from the litter box. 

NOT FREAKING LIKELY.

So I called the vet to get our newly discovered female cat fixed. Except he is on vacation and unless it’s an emergency I’ll have to wait until he gets back. Next MONTH.

My ears started bleeding just at the thought of listening to this cat screech at the top of her lungs as she demands somebody give her the. sex. right. freaking. now.

Still, I held tough. I could outlast this round of horniness, keep the cat from getting impregnated by a random tom in the sticks and avoid future kitten catastrophe. Or so I thought. It’s hard to stick to one’s guns when a yowling cat screams at the top of her lungs right next to your ear and whines that no one is listening to her plaintiff demands for the sexy times. 

The cat whined cried to me so I whined cried to Boo. Boo of course, was not sympathetic. That’s because the bugger took off for the North Pole. Far away from a hormonal puddy tat’s howling needs.

“How can I make her shut up?” I whined the other night when Wolfee was acting particularly obnoxious, screeching extra loudly and trying to rub her back end on the kid’s feet.

“Toss her outside.”

“No. I don’t want kitty babies.”

“Then live with it and talk dirty to me.”

Since neither option was particulary appealing to me at the moment I decided to google homeopathic rememdies to harmlessly shut the damn cat up.

Don’t do this people. My eyes are still burning.

Freaking internet perverts.

Still, the howling was incessant and I was seriously thinking about duct taping one of my sex toys to the cat’s ass and letting her go to town. This idea may have had merit but lost any appeal with the thought defiling my own private stash and wasting a good roll of duct tape.

That’s when someone on Twitter (God Bless thee Twitter and all my twitter peeps) suggested instead of using sex toys and duct tape I try a good ole fashioned Q-tip on her back end.

Sounded reasonable to my sleep addled brain.

But have you ever tried to shove a wet Q-Tip up the back end of a squirming, squalling cat? Even with someone holding the poor cat down it didn’t work. Apparently, this is one of those urban kitty legends. Picture me with my confused 12 year old daughter holding down a pissed off cat and asking me why I was trying to rape the cat with a cotton swab and you will understand why I’m saving all my money for her future therapy bills.

After releasing the cat, where she promptly jumped up onto my head and justly tried to rip out my eyeballs with her claws, I admitted defeat. I was going to have to either put in ear plugs for the forseeable future or do the unthinkable: Kick her outside to go have some x-rated fun.

Images of a kitten-free future seemed futile.

At about 2 a.m. that morning, when her constant moaning and crying for some stud service grated my last nerve beyond that of a frayed shoe lace, I swooped her up and tossed her out into the darkness of the great outdoors.

“There Wolfee! You won. Go have your fun. Don’t come back until you are satisfied and can keep your thoughts to yourself,” I said as she landed on the deck.

She shook her tail at me and wandered off into the woods under the cover of the starry sky.

“Try to remember to be safe!” I called after her. “Get him to use a rubber if you can!” 

And then I crawled back into my bed, free of all cat calling and slumbered on peacefully.

That peace came to a screeching halt when a bedraggled and decidedly haggard looking Wolfee dragged her sorry bottom back into the house the next day.

From the looks of it, she was a satisfied puddy tat. But from the smell of her, it was hard to tell if she met a Tom or just settled for the neighbourhood skunk. (Not that I’m judging. The girl had needs.)

While my ears were no longer bleeding my eyes were watering and my nose was threatening to walk off the job. Plus Wolfee was covered in kitty goop. Or skunk goop. Or some other animal goop. She was a stinky, satisfied mess who was in dire need of a hosing down.

Which I would have happily done outside had it not been for the fact that it is January in the middle of a Canadian winter around these parts. My hose is frozen solid. 

So I made an executive decision and locked the cat into the laundry room and waited for the children to arrive home for school.

Where upon I granted them the privilege of bathing the cat.

Snicker.

They of course, thought it would be great fun to bathe their beloved kitty. My own memories of trying to wrestle a cat into a pillow case served as a warning to make sure I stayed out of harm’s way.

It wasn’t long after the water started running that the howling began. Not Wolfee’s. But rather Fric and Frac’s. Then the cat’s claws came out and the shredding commenced.

Soon Fric and Frac were racing out of the bathroom being chased off by a pissed off wet cat and all I could do was try and hide my giggles as I commanded them to get the job done.

“But MOM!” Fric wailed, while looking at her bleeding arms. “She’s EVIL.”

“No, she smells evil. She is just scared. Talk nice to her and she’ll behave. I promise.”

I’m such a liar.

So I may have had to shove the three of them back into the pits of hell bathroom and hold the door knob on the outside of the door to prevent any escape as I listened to the sounds of terror emanating from the other side of the door.

I’m sure I could have waxed poetic to my children about the responsibilities and duties as a pet owner while they risked their lives to wash the skank stank off their cat, but instead, I grabbed my camera and laughed heartily at the sight of all three creatures in my bathroom.

All of them were dripping wet and angry and two thirds of them may have been bleeding from being torn to ribbons.  And all three of them were looking at me with murder in their eyes.

I’d have been scared if I had a lick of sense and wasn’t laughing so hard.

Parenting isn’t always rainbows and unicorns people.

Sometimes it means locking your children into a small room and letting the fur fly.

Bwhahahahaha!