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Dusty: The Arrogant

By: Austin Purdie , Posted On: Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Back when the Earth was young (approximately 10 years ago), my family and I went out to find none other than a pet. Not just any pet, though. A cat.

A cat pet.

Oh, wed heard the stories. But our devout mindset directed toward cats had numbed our ears to the warning pleas of others, telling stories of poo in corners, urine on carpets, and vomit everywhere else.

This cat would torture us in another way, far worse than any of the aforementioned.

When we got him as a kitten, oh, so long ago, he looked so cute, playful, and absolutely innocent as he ever could. We decided to name this cat, from the gray hair on his belly, Dusty.

Dusty was a good cat. For the first couple of years, at least. But as the years continued to drag on, we noticed that he would refuse to eat food occasionally. This would, of course, result in a dramatic loss of weight that was actually quite terrifying to us for our little friend.

So, we took him to the vet.

The vets office is possibly one of the most memory-filled places in the entire universe. Filled with the joys of a recovered friend, to the grief of one that didnt quite make it, to the hideous stenches that inhibit the building and the local populace, the vets office is filled with the long lost memories of pet-owners everywhere.

This particular visit scarred (yes, scarred) the cat forever with a disgustingly large and growing, inexplicable horror and fear of the vets office. I know this, because immediately upon arrival, the creature looked up into the air, sat down, and doodied all over the welcome mat. The welcome mat! Not only this, but when we traveled deep into the depths of the office, the same thing happened. As we placed him on the cold, metal examination table, once again, feces flew freely.

The vet came to the conclusion that he was, indeed, allergic toget thishis teeth, it made his gums sore, so it hurt to chew.

How on EARTH are you allergic to your own teeth?

The vet said it was the work of plaque. Plaque. Plaque. My furry little friend was allergic to his teeth.

I thought that was bad. Really bad, beyond bad. For a few years, at least. But as the years continued to drag on, even more horror, to my surprise, arose and reared its ugly head.

***

The day that Dusty had been diagnosed with kitty teeth allergies, we were given several little syringes full of yellow goop that had the color and consistency of pus, and were instructed to squirt the glop in his mouth every couple of days.

This did not work.

See, whenever we tried to do it, mere mortals in comparison to the Christ-figure of a veterinarian, Dusty would freak out, move his head around, and get yellow gunk all over his face. Then hed run around with his filthy, yellow face and start wiping it on the furniture, floor, and various pieces of clothing. (Which are still stained, by the way.)

After years and years of the pain from looking at Dustys hideously swollen, red gums, the veterinarian suggested that all of his teeth be removed.

And so it was as such.

Dusty, the cat, has no teeth, as of now. Quite strange really, just imagining that your cat swallowed everything without chewing it one bit. Actually, its really, really frightening. Cats dont do that. Snakes do. My cat is not a snake; at least Id hope he isnt.

One day, directly after having Dustys teeth removed, I walked past the cat in the hall of my house, and, being the decrepit and small cat he is, I failed to see him, and bumped into his face with my shin. I made an oooooo! noise, and then looked down, only to find a long, slender stream of slobber, sliding down from my jeans onto my shoe. This, of course, was quite the surprise, as Id never actually recalled my leg, nor my jeans, ever slobbering, let alone having mouths. When I finally decided that this was quite the unnatural event, I made another oooooo! sound, and went to clean it off.

Once I had finished cleansing myself of leg slobber, I looked at the cat and saw two or three other slimy strings of slobber, hanging from his mouth. While the joy I felt when I learned that my leg hadnt suddenly sprouted salivary glands was great, I felt worried for the cat whod suddenly lost control of keeping his own spit in his mouth.

After weeks of drooling, wiping, slobbering, and going oooooo, we decided to take Dusty to the vet, another time.

This particular incident, unfortunately, had nothing to do with having no teeth, and when I say unfortunately, I dont take it lightly.

By the end of that fateful day in the veterinarians office, our cat had been sampled of blood, slobber, urine, and of course, doodie. After all of these hideous tests, the diagnosis was clear.

And so, the saga of having a diabetic cat began.

***

Honestly, how many people have you heard of that have a diabetic cat? Seriously? Most people don't know of hardly any. The normal, average family? I think not.

Along with the snotty slobbering problem, Dusty completely refused to clean himself, leaving his fur matted and, quite simply, disgusting. A few weeks earlier, he had been in the garage, and rolled in a puddle of oil under a car. This, of course, did not help the situation, and not only left his fur matted, but greasy and stinky.

Pills, serums, syringes, insulin, and voodoo were all used on this cat to attempt to rid him of this hideous affliction. None of which, worked.

First, the veterinarian decided to give him a steroid. To this day, I have no idea how this would help at all, but it was the first attempt. This particular steroid was a pill, which we had to crush and put into his food. After a matter of seconds, it was quite apparent that this pill did not taste incredibly good. Right upon the food touching Dusty's tongue, he would begin to sneeze, make funny noises in his throat, and foam at the mouth.

The next alternative was insulin. This was quite possibly the most pathetic attempt in the entire bunch. The veterinarian had given us several dozen syringes and a small bottle of insulin. We were to give him three CC's of insulin, twice a day. This was quite the task, as Dusty had eventually learned that a person walking toward him with a syringe was bad, and would result in pain. Because of this, whenever he saw a syringe, he would run and hide in my parents' closet. If you tried to reach in to get him, he would attempt to gum you to death. This cat's saliva was of a foreign kind, however. Because when it touched your skin, it would dry, make your skin turn to the color of blood, and make it adopt the texture of something similar to the scales of a Gila monster.

Finally, when you did get a hold of him, you would have to pull on his scruff, put the syringe in there, inject, pull out, and run before he covered you with spit.

After seeing no results in this, my brother, being the terrifying individual he is, decided to cast several "satanic-voodoo-spells" on the cat to see if he would get better. Other than him doodying in front of my bedroom door twice and vomiting under my bed, this reaped no results.

Finally, in a desperate attempt to cure the cat, who was losing two pounds every few weeks, the veterinarian suggested changing his diet to that of a "Hill's M/D diet," which apparently is said to increase glucose levels and help manage weight. So, we decided, what the heck, and tried it.

A week after introducing the new diet, Dusty lit up, gained weight, stopped drooling, started cleaning himself again, and generally became a healthier cat.

We'd found a cure.

In the following weeks, his health flourished, he became the cat we'd known for a decade, and everything was pretty much peachy thereon.

The only problem we faced with this cat any longer was how he would constantly insist on defecating in front of my bedroom door. I began to wonder why this habit had developed, and how I could stop it.

After hours upon hours of pondering the subject, I'd come to a conclusion:

Arrogance. And so, the name Dusty, the Arrogant was born. Nothing close to Socks, the Wroth and Impure, who is an entirely new story.

Dusty, was possibly the most arrogant, snobbish cat I'd ever had to come in contact with. And producing a fresh pile of poo in front of my bedroom door was the perfect way of saying, Im so much better than you, so stay out of my way. Dusty was, and is, "immortal" in his own mind, unless faced with the horrors of a vacuum, moving saran wrap, or Ziploc bags.

Dusty, the Arrogant is still alive and kicking, at a whopping age of 11 years old. That's about 60 years old in cat years. Old as dirt.

Article Source: http://www.many-articles.com

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