Collecting cat piss

For those that don’t know, our cat is called Pudding and we adopted her from the Animal Welfare League in 2007. She’s been an awesome cat, and still is.

We all love her dearly. Except when she pisses on my clothes. Then she’s a cunt.

For those following The Cancer Chronicles blogs, you may recall the cat pissing tales but to flow on from that, here’s a little sub-chapter that made my boy Dilan laugh like fuck and made my first wife Marjana vomit uncontrollably, well almost. Both were great sights to see.

I’ll get to the vet’s response later too.

Pudding is both and inside and outside cat and like a good ‘little puddy cat’ usually pisses and shits outside.

Recently though, she’s pissed inside a few times, most of which have been on my clothes; the little cunt.

Way back in the early days if she was mistakenly locked inside and needed a piss or shit, she’d do it in the bathroom and even bath. No dramas there, man. It’s more than acceptable considering the circumstances out of her control and fair enough too.

So, early morning about a week ago I was trying to sleep in and Pudding was outside the front door making some funky weird meowing noises. These meows tell us something’s up. It’s a different meow to her other meows and yes we do understand each different meow, much like we understand the different barks from our dog, Bella. This meow sounds like a deep drawn out note played on an out of tune cello. I ain’t no symphony orchestra expert but that description is pretty accurate, I reckon.

I was doing a pretty good job pushing on with my sleep in by ignoring her. Why ignore her? Because I’m wiser than our oldest boy Kodi who let her inside so she could then come and annoy me. So instead of hearing her twisted meows at a reasonable level, I now had full volume meows up close confirming something wasn’t right, but I dug it in and tried harder than ever to enjoy my sleep in.

My first wife though, not so much. She gave up waiting for me to get up and got up herself to see what the story was.

Oh she was upset alright and was looking for somewhere to piss in our bedroom. I’m talking about the cat here, not my first wife… although she does have her moments too. Pudding and her symphony orchestra instrument meow, along with some prancing around dance moves like Mr Bean, was trying to tell us something.

By this stage I don’t just have a spastic sounding cat because I also have a spastic sounding first wife whose freaking out making her own weird sounds of scold, most of which had my name attached. These had the desired effect of making me get up out of bed pretty fucken quick and pounce on Pudding like a coiled spring unloading (but a very worn and rusty spring in slow motion and with old bones and rooted knees).

Naked as fuck and holding Pudding at extended arms reach as far away from all appendages as possible (because she can be rather clawy in these sort of moments), I managed to put her back outside before she gave me reason to call her a cunt.

I didn’t even want to enjoy a fucking nice sleep in anyway.

In the aftermath when our household calmed somewhat, I took a moment to consider a potentially better approach to our Pudding scene and came to the conclusion it may be worth getting her checked by a vet. I came to this decision because my first wife came to that conclusion and told me we should do it.

Obviously all of our lives have changed since the first wife got bowel cancer. It’s affected each and every one of us including our kids and yes, even our pets. I can be a dumb cunt alright but not our pets. They’re brainy as fuck and know something’s up in our world. With that said though, obviously Pudding’s actions may possibly be behaviour related, but they may also be a urine infection or some other shit like that.

Over the weekend I booked an online appointment with the Animal Welfare League Vet in Daisy Hill. They phoned me Monday afternoon confirming an appointment at 8.50am the following day.

I explained the situation and the sheila said if possible to bring in a urine sample. She admitted that it would be difficult to get but threw it out there as a potential option because, well… ya just never know.

Fuck man, there’s a challenge if ever I heard one.

I spent that day working outside in the yard and Pudding mirrored Kodi and spent that day sleeping in a cosy bed inside. Those two have heaps more in common than just their love of each other, I tell ya.

Come late afternoon someone had let Pudding outside and as I was about to trick my mate Marty next door into having a beer with me I noticed Pudding following me. When she got to our front yard she started scratching the ground like she was gunna have a piss and I’m like ‘Fuck man, now’s my chance’.

I looked around for something to catch her piss in. Anything at all but nup, nothing. I even contemplated running inside to get something real quick but realised I didn’t have enough time so used what I like to call, my initiative.

I notice that shortly after I try and pull out that initiative thing, my first wife tends to call me spastic. It seems to be a bit of a recurring thing of late and the two definitely seem to go together.

As Pudding squatted she saw me coming towards her and started her pissing in the front yard.

Pissing outside is something I’ve done many times and both me and my boys much prefer it to pissing inside. The missus, not so much though. It just feels real natural and shit, ya know. Saves water too so definitely good for the environment. My first wife must be anti tree huggers ‘cos she reckons we’re just dirty cunts.

But anyway, back to the story… I reached over top of Pudding, cupped my hands under her fanny and as she’s letting rip I caught as much of her cat piss in my hands as I could. I actually did really well I reckon because I was in a weird leaning over pose with hands cupped kinda backwards underneath her. She pretty much filled my hands up with her cat piss and I have to admit the heat and amount of it did catch me of guard. It’s was way hotter than warm and there was untold.

In hindsight, it was probably best that Marty hadn’t noticed me coming to chat or where I’d slipped off to so that I was able to give it my full concentration without struggling to try hold a beer at the same time.

When Pudding finished she did look at me as if to say ‘What the fuck was that ya spastic cunt?’, and then she ran away rather quickly for some unknown reason. Not away as in ‘Fuck you, I’m moving out ya piss catching mental bastard’, but more of a ‘I’m just gunna go watch you from afar underneath the car where it’s safe’, sort of away.

So here I am with my cupped hands full of fresh hot cat piss and I’m looking at options as to where I can pour it before it drips through my hands.

I yelled out to the first wife who was inside to get me a glass or a cup or something quick and then did the ol’ quick as walk to our front door with hands held very still. I was focused as fuck and it actually reminded me of doing the egg and spoon race as a kid .

Marjana was in the kitchen with no idea what so ever and asked if a cup will do.

“Yeah, just hurry up. Quick!”

She came out the front door with one of our favourite cups; an old faded Hajduk Split cup.

Like the forever faithful doting wife with blind faith she did what I asked without any idea why. She tried to hand me the cup but I told her to hold it still which she did. I then poured what was left of Pudding’s cat piss into the cup… mostly. But yeah, maybe some of it did drip onto her hands too and possibly that some was quite a bit.

Noticing the Hansel and Gretel breadcrumb like trail all the way from front yard to front door my first wife asked me what it was.

“Pudding’s piss,” said I rather proudly.

‘What?’

‘It’s a sample of Pudding’s piss for the vet, man.

‘Oh yuck! You’re gross! No it isn’t. No really, Brendon, what is it?’

‘I’m telling ya, it’s Pudding’s piss. Cool aye.’

‘You are disgusting! You’re not normal. Seriously Brendon, I mean it. We have to throw that cup out now. And don’t you even think about touching me tonight or even for the next week. What are you going to do with it now?’

I hadn’t actually thought that far ahead but having had to piss in a cup a time or two before I told her I was gunna put it in the fridge until we went to the vet.

‘No you are not!’

‘Yeah I am.’

She realised I was telling the truth and cut her losses by telling me to make sure I cover it.

You know when you feel a bit affectionate and try to touch your first wife’s face to move some hair from it in a loving manner? Well first wives don’t really like it when you do that with cat piss hands. Marjana put distance between us quicker than Pudding did to me.

I put the cup in the fridge, uncovered.

Amongst everything my first wife was saying from afar, I do recall her telling me to clean up the cat piss droplets. I poured some water over the cat piss trail on our pavings and washed my hands, even using soap and hot water. I’m a weird cunt I know but I don’t like the smell of cat piss, especially on me all day.

I had a few more laughs later on too though because it’s also quite fun to gently caress your first wife’s face later on in the evening after she forgot what occurred earlier but to then make sue she remembers and then tell her that its the same hands touching her face that were only a short time ago full of cat piss.

Next day is vet visit day and I know our previous cat carrier thing had been thrown out so I took some wines out of a wine box I had and poked and cut holes in it.

Pudding had earlier been fed by me and was sleeping on our bed like the queen all cats think they are. I grabbed her ever so gently and put her in the box before she realised I was up to something. She wasn’t particularly happy and I imagine our little cat piss catching incident we pulled off together the day before confirmed that I’m even more mental than a dog.

I managed to get her in the car but she was pretty persistent and kept poking her head out through the top meowing ‘What the fuck cunt?’. I may take the piss (pun intended) but do love my cat so although I was tempted to play that carnival game of banging the clowns heads down when they pop up, I didn’t. I’d gently push it back in again and again and again.

My first wife came for the ride and even with her trying to hold the top down we didn’t make it to the end of our street before she convinced me to buy another cat box.

Quickest pet shop visit ever and $70 later I scored a decent one that did the trick and away we go again.

I guess I could’ve gone to a local vet but I like the Animal Welfare scene and where’s the fun in that right. Nah, I much prefer long drives in peak hour traffic with a cat doing meow yells that without a word of a lie translated to…

‘You’re a cunt!’

‘Oh, you are so fucked now, cunt!’

‘So ya think this is funny do ya, cunt?’

‘I’ll piss on your clothes again, cunt!’

‘Fuck you, cunthead.’

I actually like to remember this trip like that olden days Kentucky Fried Chicken cartoon television ad. You know the one ‘Hugo said you go and I said no you go’, with the happy family bouncing along together in a perfect fake world. Maybe only Kiwis know that ad, and old ones at that.

So we arrived late but had warned them on the way so all good. With cat piss coffee cup in one hand and Pudding inside her cage in the other, I introduce Pudding and my first wife to the vet sheila who was lovely but whose name I can’t recall sorry.

I explained our situation with Marjana having cancer, our life changes, Pudding previously pissing on my clothes, the possibility of her having a urine infection etc.

During our consultation the vet notices I’m probably not like most people and wasn’t really drinking from the coffee cup and raised the question about what’s in the cup.

‘Oh, that’s Pudding’s piss’, I said.

The ol’ first wife identified this was an ideal time to distance herself from me telling her I’m disgusting and shit.

I interrupted and explained that the sheila I spoke to yesterday told me to try and get a sample of Pudding’s piss, although she said ‘urine’ and not ‘piss’ and that’s exactly what I did.

‘Really? That would be very difficult to do actually. How on earth did you manage that?’, asked the vet sheila.

So I briefly relived my cat piss catching experience saying I reached under her and caught it etc.

She was rather impressed to be honest, even if Marjana kept telling her we’re going to throw out the cup and I kept saying no we ain’t.

The vet asked for the cup and I do admit she had a bit of a confused look on her face when she looked inside and saw that it looked more brown than yellow and had floaties and shit inside it. Not shit, as in actual shit, but dirt and shit, I think.

‘It looks kind of um..,’

Knowing where she was going with this line of questioning I explained to her that I had been gardening and that it was probably dirty from my hands.

She looked up from the cup directly at me and only then realised that I used my hands to catch Pudding’s cat piss and not the actual cup.

I then value added to the initial story I previously told her so she could get the full picture. I must say if she was impressed before, she was now absolutely enthralled at my dedication and the sacrifice I’d made.

She commented how much my cat must trust me to even allow that to happen and said ‘wow’ and ‘impressive’ more than once, but also mentioned because it had like my DNA and garden soil and shit they would still do a urine sample although it might not be accurate.

Marjana hadn’t asked for a divorce but made it quite obvious that she and I held different views on how one should obtain cat piss samples and which vessel to hold it in.

The vet sheila left to do the initial urine sample test and told all her workmates about this spastic cunt who captured cat piss in his hand and brought it to them in a coffee cup infused with garden soil and human DNA.

As dirty as the cat piss was and as unorthodox as the collection method was, the sample was good and the piss test came back with a positive result to a urine infection.

We had to keep her in for the day for them to obtain a clean sample for good measure which, again I might add, came back with the same result as my garden soil cat piss variant.

When we came to pick Pudding up later that afternoon, the vet sheila admitted that she was so impressed with my skills and cat piss collection technique that she shared the experience with all her colleagues.

Anyway, Pudding is back home being tricked into having antibiotics twice daily by her evil slave feeder (that’s me by the way).

So if ever you’re in the Animal Welfare League vet and you hear mention about some spastic and a cat piss catching tale that would be me and that would also be a very true story.

The end.