vituperation

October 15, 2003

If you need another cat, go read this.

And speaking of needing more cats…

After narrowing kitty names down to “Stymie” and “Spartacus” (though we did give serious thought to naming him “Shithead”, pronounced “Shy-thede”) and then debating those names for a couple of days, I’m pleased to announce that we have settled on a name for our new kitten.

Say hello to Stanley.

Middle Eastern terrorists killed three Americans today, in an attack on an American diplomatic convoy in the Gaza Strip. While a part of me hopes that there will be swift and devastating retribution from our President, I suspect there won’t be, because (humorously) no militant group is willing to claim responsibility for the attack. Therefore, I urge President Bush to take a different approach: unmuzzle Israel. Quit asking them to “show restraint” towards the fucknuggets that keeping blowing themselves up and taking Israeli citizens with them, and let them do some serious spring cleaning.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: when the person coming after you only understands violence and death, the only way you’ll get through to him is by killing him. Violently.

(Side note: the conspiracy theorists are already claiming the reason the normal terrorist groups aren’t claiming responsibility for this attack is because the Israelis are actually behind it. You know, those pesky Zionists and their aspirations for world domination, and all that)

I stood at the counter waiting, the cat carrier in my hand tilting back and forth as the kitten inside it ran from end to end trying to peer through the air holes. The receptionist wandered in from somewhere in the back of the clinic, carrying a stack of manilla folders she put on her desk before sitting down.

“Did you name him yet?” she asked, smiling. Given that we have five cats, and one particularly sickly one that single-pawedly paid for the doctor’s new house, we’re well known at the vet’s. When I called on Monday to make the appointment, I told the receptionist that we hadn’t settled on a name for the new kitten.

“No,” I said, “we’ve got it narrowed down, but haven’t made a final decision so far. All we know for sure is that we want his name to start with an ‘S’. It’s sort of a tradition.”

She looked at her monitor.

“Yeah, I see that. Spot, Stimpy, Spanky, Snoopy, and Scrappy.”

“Stimpy ran away. This guy is sort of like a replacement.”

It was like she didn’t hear me, so intent she was at looking at her screen.

“Hmmm,” she said. “Sassy? No, that’s a girl name. Simon? Sandy? Smokey? How about Sunny? Or Sontag? Sousa? Stimpy!”

“We already had a Stimpy,” I reminded her. “We’ve sort of been calling him Stumpy because he only has half a tail but, you know, that seems like it’s making fun of his, um, disability.”

“Sneezy? Stomper? Stinger?” She scrolled down the pet names showing on her screen, reading through them.

I felt like I’d wandered onto the set of Forrest Gump.

“Boiled shrimp,” she continued, “Fried shrimp. Shrimp salad. Shrimp-n-potatoes. Cayenne shrimp…”

The intern that helps the veterinarian wandered out and picked up the folder for Stanley. She gave the receptionist (”Stir-fried shrimp.”) the once-over then turned her questioning glance to me.

“Cat names,” I said, “because we haven’t named him yet.” I raised the carrier helpfully.

She led me back to the examination room. The receptionist continued reading, raising her voice as we walked away.

“Lemon shrimp! Grilled shrimp! Mandarin shrimp!”

“Keep going,” the intern called down the hall as she closed the exam room door, “We’re listening!”

“Baked shrimp! Coconut shrimp!” Her voice was muffled by the closed door.

Stanley handled the exam pretty well, but he didn’t enjoy having his temperature taken. I can’t say I blamed him, even though the intern WAS pretty cute. Turns out he has ear mites (which we suspected, given all the brown mite feces coming out of his ears) as well as an ear infection (which we didn’t expect).

A couple of shots, an ear-flush (which Stanley had plenty to say about, let me tell you), and a nail clipping later, I was ready to pay and go home so Stanley could resume his madness and mayhem. I carried him — in the carrier — back to the front counter.

“Vietnamese shrimp!” the receptionist cried.

“Oh yeah, that’s a good one. How much do I owe you?”

She began working on the bill.

“Pickled shrimp,” she muttered, “Popcorn shrimp.”

I remained quiet while the bill printed. She took my proffered credit card and swiped it through the machine.

“Shrimp scampi. Barbecue shrimp. Shrimp bisque.”

Noting that the prescription ear medicine for Stanley was made out for “Unnamed feline” I told her I’d call and let them know when we settled on a name.

“Sweet and sour shrimp,” she replied, “Shrimp creole.”

I smiled and thanked her, grabbed my receipt, and left.

The last thing I heard before the door closed was “Cajun shrimp.”