I admit, openly and freely, that it has been a week fraught with worries, for me, as I did ponder this problem.
It all began with the presentation of the IBID query: this Thursday past Rob had printed it out from the mail electroniqué and scotch-the-taped it to the exterior of my tank— as he does each week— so that I might bear forth to you the fine and piercing light of my wisdom. Atop the printinged-out he had scrawled a brief note in wax crayon, reading:
Im out til Next Week. Vacation & Shit. Cedar Point. Buds w/ buds. Whatever.
Molly is visiting some dude in Bowling Green. Sang is doing Garden Tour w/ Mom Sang.
Chimps will bring Dogs 4 u to Munch.
Here is the question. Prolly you shouldnt need any research help or Nuthin. This is an Easy One.
Now, I am far from alone in finding your Monkeygruntspeak americanum is possessed of many of the homos— phonic, nymic and sexualic— which tend to lead toward a great deal of confusion. I think much upon this word "confusion" as I attempt to advise you, both Anonymous Cat Owner in specific and my Gentle Readers in the general, in the ways and means of your days. Tending forth from the strictest definitia dictionaria, I note that a confusion is the state of being mixed or blended so as to produce indistinctness, and depends forth from the Latinial con fundere: the pouring of things with each to the other, together, into a single place, originally meant to refer to the Roman tendency to mix their slurrythick wine syrup with water in order to render it more palatable.
So too do matters, lexical and cultural, mix indivisibly, as does the wines and waters.
Further, in my defense, note that in circumstance (Which, in its Latinial roots, is not that which stands around a matter, like so many rubbernecked gawkers or near-useless lab assistants? That being the case, then it is certain that my life, she does seem much besought of circumstances.) the first, is this above limned matter of the confusing homoisity of the language in which we must conduct our commerce. Compound this with circumstance the second, that being that my agents of intelligence in sorting out and refusing my confused notions are first, a well meaning idiot man-child (this being my lab assistant and confidant Rob, off upon his vacation much of this past week) and second a foreign born speaker of English as his second language (my lab director, Hsien Sang, similarly about the world of things not related directly to his salaried role about the lab.)
I admit freely and frankly that the initial confusion, so profound, was of a certain mine own fault. Some numinous character to the note, to the juxtaposition of the "Easy" in Rob's scrawl and the "pussy" of your question, of the very fact that it was Rob— with his great affection for magazines, web sites and videography detailing human anatomy, both in the domicile and "gone wild"— who had presented the question, led me to jump (erroneously) to the conclusion that the dilemma was sexual in nature, and alluded to both habits of sexual possessiveness amongst partners, and multiplicity in anatomical detail, that were heretofore unknown to me.
Taking the last part first, I have noted a general lateral symmetry among non-deformed humans. I myself posses radial symmetry, for the greater part, and thus your extreme commitment to bilateral symmetry is, in the very least part, a mildly interesting curiosity. As to your bilaterality: For much of the parts of a human there is two of a kind (two of the arms, of the legs, of the nostrils) distributed to either side of an imagined ventral line running from crown of head to legcrotch. For those parts of which there are but one (a nose, a heart, a pussy or cockrod), these are situated along that imagined line. My casual glances at Rob's research materials had lead me to conclude— in no conscious way, but simply a-back of my great and encompassing mind— that the pussy was one of these latter sorts: a singular thing, and thus predictably placed along the ventral line.
But this questions, it implied otherwise. It was the "pussy cats" which were coveted uncomfortably. Is the "cat" a part of the pussy, much as the single lung-unit (located, as one might forecast, along the Imagined Ventral Line) is composed of two lobes (each to either side of the Line.) What were these "cats"? In what way were they distinct from the pussy itself? And what covetable function might they serve?
Additionally, I have been much versed by Rob in the difference between the "boyfriend or girlfriend" (an occasional sexual consort with whom one bares a loose and fluid social contract) and the "boy or girl friend" (an acquaintance of some degree of a given gender) and the "roommate" (a nebulous sort, possibly of one of the first two castes, possibly of no caste at all.) Although the world of humanity who are roommates would seem to, in all probability, divide equally among these two groups, Rob's anecdotes make it seem that much more often is the case that the roommate is either a member of the latter group, or a despised out-caste, soon to be rid off, if only his dollars towards rent were not so very vital.
As such, your relationship to this roommate, and his possible claim upon your pussy's cats left much to be discussed and sussed out, but of which I had none with whom to discuss, owing to the deluge of vacationings among my staff.
I do stare much and longing to Rob's computer terminal, so ardently wishing that this I could access and activate, and use such to delve the World Wide Telewebb's vast archive of anatomical images and blogged epic sagas of boyfriends boy-friends and roommates so as to make the heads or the tales. So for days, I did but swim swift circuits of my tank, worrying on the matter of your pussy's cats and roommate, his claims and desires, what he might do with and you your pussy's cats, and your creepedness profound. I tried on several occasions to begin to hammer out a response upon my keying board, but it was for naught, and my tank was quickly littered with a flurry of floating and flitting pages of aborted advices to you.
Finally, this Tuesday morn, did Rob return. I did indicate the troubling missive regarding your pussy and its cats, and did ask of the anatomy, and the anatomical claims.
"What?," he asked, squintingly. He read through the letter, his lips gentle perusing the words. "Oh, dude, no. See, 'pussy cats' and 'pussy'— totally different. 'Pussy,' yeah, you've got it spot on, but 'pussy cats'— wait!"
And Rob did run dartingly put the lab door, and I heard him pound down the flight of stairs. Shortly he returned, holding within his hands a mewling double-fistfull of fluff.
"Someone dumped 'em in a cardboard box in the the zoo thing by the kennels. Leeks has been looking after them, feeding 'em tea and crumpets or some shit." He held aloft to my tank the fluff, and I did see a sparkle of intelligent eyes, and a pink tongue and mouth, "This is a pussy cat, dude. This is what it's all about. Get it."
I must have jerked with the shock, for Rob swiftly continued: "NO! No. I know what you're thinking: this isn't a sex thing, dude. Jesus! No. It's just a pet thing, right?"
"Like the heavy petting written of in your YM magazines."
"Shit, shut up. No, it isn't. Why is everything always sex with you?" he lowered the pussied cat, holding it protectively to his narrow chest and stroking of its back furs, "Just pets, you know, animals you keep around your place? Like, you have dogs, and this guy has cats. Dig it? His roommate is too possessive of his pet cats."
"Ah," I nodded of the headsac— a gesture of your body language I find much pleasing and broadly communicative of the full sweep and swift current of understanding when she draws one into her warm eddies. There is no confusion in a nod of the headsac. "I do indeed now conceive of the matter clearly. Thank you, Rob."
"No sweat, Lord A. It's what I'm here for."
"Indeed. And how was your paid absence from work?"
"Hunh?" he looked up from the pussied cat, which had taken to liking at his fingers with the tiny pink tongue, "Oh, good, good. Went to Cedar Point with Suveer and a couple of guys. I was pretty fucked up, and had drank a bunch of pop, and the cold water of Splash Mountain kinda shocked me, and I fuckin pissed myself, which was funny as fuck, but Suveer was sharing the bench with me, and he's been a real bitch about it. Hasn't talked to me since we got back. Man," Rob shook his head— another body communication which I love for its breadth, depth and clarity; there is naught of confusion there, "that guy, no fuckin' fun. Fuckin' roommates. Know what I'm sayin?"
"Yes, Rob. I know much of the roommates."
Anonymous Pussied Cat Owner, in closing, I advise this: Broach the subject with your rentmate, regardless of whether he is of the former group (rentmates/ruttmates) the later group (rentmates of acquaintance) or the non-group (rentmates who lack in the fucking fun), for it is always good and well to share of your snackage and comestibles, but lines, they must needs be drawn.
Your Giant Squid
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