So I promised something sad to round out the week...

This cat is dead.

(See I wasn't kidding.)

As the people who know me know, I live with a bunch of roommates. Sometimes one, sometimes two, sometimes three. And that's good, because I'd probably go all crazy hermit if I spent too much time by myself.

But the reality of having a roommate (or roommateS) is that sometimes you have to make compromises. Your roommate wants to get a new towel rack, you get a new towel track. Your roommate wants to get a new plunger, you get a new plunger. Your roommate wants to get a fuzzy little ottoman with legs, well...

So it was somebody else's idea to get a cat, but I said, "Sure, why not."

My family always had cats when I was growing up. (Because having a dog would have been too much work.) Cats are cool, but the whole litter box thing is a real drag. But I figured as long as the roommates were helping me out, it wouldn't be that big of a deal.

The cat that we got was somebody else's cat first. His name was Timmy, which we all agreed was unfortunate. Someone decided that Timmy could be short for Timon (as in "of Athens," because we're pretentious scum), but his name quickly devolved to "Cat."

Or, more frequently, "CAT!?!"

Cat had no claws, front OR back, which was really nice as long as you weren't consciously thinking about how awful that was. And it was fortunate, because he was a mean cat. He would bite you if you tried to pet him. And he would bite you if you ignored him. And he would bite you if you just kind of cowered from him in the corner.

Which was really cool.

And he shed like a category 5 hairicane. He would rub against the side of our recliner and paint it white.

So suddenly we had a cat, and it was okay, because he couldn't claw anything up, and it was fun to watch him bite people, and I had about eighty of those sticky rolly hair-grabby things for the hair, and one of my other roommates was helping me out with the food and the litter and all that.

And then that roommate moved out, and suddenly Cat was my cat and my responsibility, and honestly I should never have children, because I can barely take care of one clawless, bite-happy, shedding little ottoman.

And let me just say that I'm not one of those people who confuses pets for people. I called my cat an ottoman, because I liked my cat the exact same way you'd like a fuzzy little ottoman that purrs.

No, seriously, think about it. A fuzzy little ottoman that purrs would be REALLY cool.

So when I run through this next part, the sad part, and I'm still making jokes, please don't be confused: I really liked my ottoman.

Cat got sick. It happened pretty suddenly too. He stopped eating, and most days we would find him just laying there on the kitchen floor. For my part, I was absolutely prepared to keep an eye on him and do something with the body if he died.

Because... People, sure. If they get sick you take them to a hospital. But ottomans? Even the really cool ones?

Well, it turns out that if you say things like that to people, seriously, in polite conversation, they get kind of pale and uncomfortable. And then even the ones who had no plans to have sex with you ever find ways to make their schedules a little bit extra busy.

And since I so wanted to be in with the in-crowd that year, I decided that I would have to take Cat to the "Vet."

I told them that Cat's name was Timmy. So they wouldn't think that I was weird.

I had to leave him there overnight, so that they could run some tests, and I got a call back the next day telling me that they needed to do surgery on Timmy to remove his spleen.

This was very upsetting news. Then they reminded me that Timmy was my CAT. Then it was just weird. Then they told me it would cost about $1500, and I was upset again.

$1500 to remove a cat's spleen?

For $1500, I could get a much better cat. Several, probably.

For $1500, I could get a whole litter of kittens with claws and spleens and hair that wouldn't blow off like a dandelion in the breeze.

Or, for that same price, I could get the same shedding, no-claws-having malcontent-of-an-ottoman that I already had, minus one spleen.

Apparently, the fewer internal organs a cat has, the more he's worth.

Apparently, for a mere $16,000, you can get a hollow sack of cat fur that blows around in the wind.

But this "Vet" person asked, "Do you want the surgery?" And in the exact moment when they ask you that, you can't say no.

It's like extortion.

"Give me $1500, or I snap this cat's neck."

I'm such a horrible person.

Do the math. For $1500, I could have fed a homeless man for a year. For God's sake, if I was purely worried about karma, I could have donated $1500 to the SPCA and rescued a stray kitten from the gas.

But that's not the end of it! I said, "Okay," and the Vet did the surgery, and whoops! Guess what? Turns out Cat didn't need that spleen out after all!

$1500 later, and I didn't even get a spleen-less cat!

Which is not to say that Cat was suddenly miraculously better. No, it turns out that (surprise, surprise) NOT removing Cat's spleen in NO WAY improved his condition.

And suddenly I'm okaying more tests, because if it's not the spleen it's GOT to be something, right? And that's more money. And more money means more homeless people starving to death and more alley cats put to sleep, because of me.

And, meanwhile, Cat's not getting any better.

At a certain point, there's too much money in the slot machine. You just have to keep feeding the beast in the hopes of getting some kind of return. ANY kind of return.

But then you hit another point. Maybe a MORE certain point. And you just can't justify it anymore.

The bill hit $2500. And that's on the credit card bill that I still haven't paid off.

By that point, I might as well have been crossbreeding cats and hobos into some post-apocalyptic super race.

Instead I had one cat with one spleen, who was no better off than the day I brought him to the Vet to begin with. So I told the Vet that I couldn't afford to keep spending money on this cat, and he said, "Okay." There was nothing else that he could do anyway, so it was best that I took Timmy home with me.

And that seemed kinky and wrong until I was once again reminded that Timmy was my cat.

The Vet explained that they had done everything they could. Apparently everything they could do consisted of:

1. Not removing my cat's spleen.
2. Not finding out what's wrong with him.
3. Not making him any better.

And, if you'll recall, THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT I WAS DOING BEFORE MY $#@!ING FRIENDS GUILT-TRIPPED ME INTO GOING TO THE $#@!ING VET IN THE FIRST $#@!ING PLACE!!!

Anyway, Cat lived for maybe a week after that, and it wasn't a particularly good week. He'd barely eat. He'd barely move. One day I came home from work to find him already stiff and cold on the kitchen floor.

I called the Vet. And I yelled at them, because I needed to yell at someone, because I really liked my ottoman, and it was gone now.

And I guess they felt bad about it, because a couple weeks later I got a card in the mail explaining that the Vet had donated a large chunk of cash to a local animal shelter in Timmy's name.

*sigh*

I'm writing a comic called ArchEnemies that'll be out next April. People are always asking me if any of the characters in the comic are based on real people. If a particular character's roommate is based off of a particular roommate of mine, or what have you.

And the answer is always no.

People, no. Never. But there is a cat named Cat, and I can promise you this much: he at least makes it through the first four issues.

Would that the real life could come with such assurances...