Max is off to the vet tomorrow morning to get his little tushy clipped. He is driving all the females in the house crazy, including me, though he treats me better than he treats the other girls. He has fallen in love with me and even as I type, he is attempting to meld with my face, my shoulders, my belly, rubbing and rubbing and purring and purring. He treats Loosy and Lily like punching bags, leaping on them, rolling them over as they yowl fiercely and hiss and bat at him. It's sort of like a 6th grade boy.
It won't be easy doing this. He can't have any food after 10 p.m., so he will have to be isolated until after the older cats have eaten in the morning and then he will doubtless need a lot of comfort and understanding and I will need to wear earplugs until I can bundle him into the carrier at 8 a.m. for the trip to the vet. I can't wait.
And yet, with my free and responsible search for truth and meaning coupled with a lifelong obsession for understanding myself, I have to wonder about my eagerness to emasculate this little guy. I don't think I generally approve of emasculating males of any species, but I can hardly wait to diminish the supply of testosterone in the house. Lily has enough for all of us.
But yesterday morning, SOMEBODY peed on my down comforter and it wasn't ME! So the usual suspect is going to take the fall. It's time, of course. He's five months old and getting more and more aggressive in his playing, even as he tries to tell me that I'm his only love. For Max, true love is related to food and I'd like to keep it that way.