When we got him, he was between four and six months old.
In my mind, he was a lot smaller then than he looks in that picture, but he's a fairly lean yet still hulking 17-pounds of cat now, so I guess small is relative.
Anyway, he was cute:
We put bras on his head:
I took pictures of his butt:
He and Oskar founded a somewhat homo-erotic naptime pairbond:
And we can't forget the boxes! Ah, the boxes:
We had good times.
Wait, wait... There were naps! We must document the belly-up sleepytime:
This cat, Onion, the boy for whom I have crawled around after on all fours with a camera for over four years, has taken to peeing on my things.
He loves me! We must spoon together in bed! Oh, the cuddling. But then, usually because I won't let him sharpen his claws on the front door or tear off wads of plastic bag to chew like bubble gum, he hates me! Oh, how awful I am!
And then, to show me just how awful I am, he pees on my Rockport riding boots. Or my El Naturalista heels with the double ankles straps. Or my Danskos.
HE PEED ON MY DANSKO BOOTS LAST NIGHT.
The thing was, it was just a little pee, and I rinsed it off, and the boots seem fine – thank whatever deity comes to your mind – but the night before last, before the latest footwear incident, he committed another act of heinous terrorism.
HE PEED ALL OVER MY SIDE OF THE BED.
That's right. He peed through three quilts and two layers of sheets right by my pillow, and I almost ripped his motherfucking head off, except that I didn't, because if my Mennonite background has taught me anything it is that outward pacifism and nonviolence come first to better lay the groundwork for psychological grief and manipulation later.
I wanted to lock him in a closet, throw him out into the sub-zero elements, pinch his ears, rip his handsome head from his meaty neck. I wanted to stuff a thorny cork up his tiny urethra. I wanted revenge.
Instead, I breathed deeply after rinsing off my precious Dansko boots and crawled into bed with the Palinode between two sleeping bags we zipped together as makeshift bedding while we wash all the fucking cat urine out of our piles of our actual bedding.
It's like we're camping, I told myself. We're zipped into a bag together. It's cute, in a way. Except I totally didn't believe myself, because sleeping bags bring out a mild claustrophobia in me, and being zipped in meant that I couldn't effectively boot jerkface Onion off the end of the bed when he settled in to sleep like everything was hunky dory and he wasn't the worst cat to ever destroy over $500 worth of footwear in only a handful of weeks.
Do you see how, all at once, Onion looks cute but also like a psycho needy mofo who might occasionally need restraints?
Onion loves fiercely, but for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and so his love comes with a price, and that is his own personal brand of bioterrorism.
He's still my wooby, my little bubby wubber cuddly bum, my unser bunser wunser, but damn if I don't spend half my time these days imagining a little dotted line around his neck with instructions that say TEAR HERE.
UPDATE: We are going to take our Onion to the vet to get him checked out for an infection, not to worry. As much as I am pretty sure, due to the timing of these incidents, that he's doing it as an emotional response to social stress, I of course want to cancel out the possibility that he's in any kind of pain. I love that behemoth of a cat.
Also, I've added an extra litter box, which he seems pretty pleased about if the extra cuddling and lack of peeing are any indication.