woodstockbones

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.

Best mates Bella and Pudding patiently waiting to go inside

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.

Check out the ‘hey there’ wink

#6 Gifts for my first wife

These gifts are from back to October, 2016.

I tell ya what, my first wife must have cooked me a mean as feed or something for me to pull out these two uncharacteristic gifts.

First time we’d (sorry, she’d) ever had a new car

The wrapping leaves a lot to be desired and I certainly aren’t puffing my chest out in pride with that element of gifting but they were real life gifts so deserve to make the cut.

#Spoiltmuch

#30 A traitor and a life saver walked into a bar

I would like it noted please that although the latest All Black loss to the Wallabies at Suncorp was a direct result of my attendance, unlike when the French government sent secret agents to blow up Greenpeace’s Rainbow Warrior ship in Auckland, New Zealand, I did not have intent to carry out the act. It’s true, I do feel dirty and ashamed like a traitor found out but although there are similarities between that 1985 espionage attack I make full admissions from the outset, so there is no need for a fully fledged investigation to prove my guilt.

For what it’s worth New Zealand, I whole heartedly apologise for the role I played in that Bledisloe loss and for my actions bringing the All Blacks into disrepute by attending that test match and the subsequent result *bows head in shame.

With that admission of guilt out of the way, I can now touch on the fact that apart from the outcome, it was a fucking good night out with our family and some good mates.

Even though cunty cancer has changed our lives, it’s nice to still do normal shit together.

My first wife even did better than a couple of the players red carded because unlike them she survived the entire encounter, and then some.

It was a massive day with visitors coming earlier including a local good samaritan I know through work called Alix from Night Ninjas. She came around with a home cooked feed to share with us.

My first wife ain’t drinking piss yet but I’ve got her back and am supporting the both of us in that task. For the record, I’m going great guns at it too. Level expert, even.

Too much yellow for my liking but at least Team WInslow are all in black

With COVID-19 as it is, social distancing at bars has changed the scene massively. So instead of drinking piss before the game in a bar outside the stadium where we talk rugby in such close confinement like locks in a scrum, we had to and drink piss and talk rugby in such close confinement like locks in a scrum, inside the stadium.

One of those people we did that with though was a real good good cunt who’d starred in a number of these blogs earlier on. Reintroducing our favourite surgeon, Peter Yuide. He’s got a weird as fuck last name that’s pronounced like ‘eyed’ (as in one eyed Aussie ref) but with a ‘y’ in front… well kinda.

He doesn’t tend to catch up for beers with all his victims, or patients as he prefers to call them but I think there’s something about us being a spastic cunts that he likes (or at least my spastic-ness). So fuck yeah; we’re keen as to drink piss together at Suncorp.

It was especially nice for my first wife who got to show off her scar again. In front of 30,000 people she done her equivalent of a bikie rootbag responding to a ‘show us ya tits’ chant from a bunch of pissed cunts. Only differences being nobody was chanting it and it wasn’t her tits she pulled her top up to display but the now famous scar on her guts.

In her ever innocent manner though, she did look at me and ask ‘Can I show my wound to Peter? Can I?’. Fuck yeah, of course you can honey!

Peter did tell my first wife that both her and her scar are looking really well and that was before he started drinking piss, too.

Unlike us in the cheap seats though, Peter being a fully qualified surgeon was in a corporate box with some other big wig surgeons. For the couple of you who told me ya missing my quotes in these blogs, I’m bringing a couple back in this one.

Quote of the Day:

Me: Where you sitting mate?

Peter: Mater Hospital have a corporate box and I’m in there with some other doctors.

Me: Oh that’s nice. I think we’ve probably paid for the whole thing ourselves with the bills we’ve paid so far. You’re welcome.

Marjana just had her fortnightly blood test done yesterday and as I write this we’re in the middle of Chernobyl Day as she’s getting her chemo fill.

She’ll be having another CT scan next week to see how her cunty cancer is reacting to the chemo.

Some visitors over the last week (sorry forgot to take some other visitor pics)

If I didn’t already know my first wife was half deaf I’d think the chemo had affected her hearing. The other day she was singing along to that new AC/DC song ‘Shot in the Dark’ and with that comes your next quote of the day…

Marjana (singing): I shot the dog…

Me: What?

Marjana: I shot the dog.

Me: What the fuck, man. No, it’s Shot in the Dark.

Marjana: I wondered why they wanted to shoot a dog.

Talking about animals, we had a massive storm about a week ago and both our cat and dog were scared as fuck. Bella hates thunder like I hate political correctness and we found out Pudding does too as she literally shit herself, the little cunt.

It was in our ensuite and for those who recall my cat whispering ways when she pissed on my clothes and are now reading to see if I did the equivalent and shat on my cat…

No, I did not shit on my cat.

She made the effort to shit on our mat and not on my clothes and I kinda appreciated the effort she went to. It’s the little things in life, aye.

Actually, Pudding is going to star in another story very shortly but going back to this one under The Cancer Chronicles topic, I imagine these posts appear less and less about the dealing with cancer in the first person than previously. For us, that’s actually a fucken good thing ya know… and believe me, it ain’t all rosey and perfect and shit like these posts portray.

But we have to be as positive as we can and try to live a bit normal even if my first wife’s husband isn’t.

I wonder who this cat shit belongs to?

Unlike other mates and cuzzies our hail was normal size

#5 Gifts for my first wife

This one isn’t so much a gift, but a hunting ground for great presents.

I took this photo on my first wife’s birthday in February 2016.

I can’t recall what I actually gave her for her birthday but on this occasion, it’s the thought that counts, aye.

This sign jumped out at me like watching a soon to be released movie in a cinema that’s shown before the main film

#29 Appreciating the good shit

Have had a bit of time to think lately and yes it still hurts like a motherfuck when I do that thinking thing.

It would be easy to take the view that our life is pretty fucked right now. I don’t think many could really argue that too much, considering.

But fuck that shit, man!

Since we started this cunty cancer journey heaps of positives have come out of it.

Yeah, there’s plenty of negatives too; like my first wife having her guts ripped out, her beautiful thick hair thinning out and my guts doing the exact opposite, having to change to a way blander diet (ok, maybe not me and the boys so much but she has), dehydrating ourselves tear by tear by tear… I could go on but that’d be looking for the negatives.

In honour of all you Playschool loving kids out there today we aren’t looking through a square, round or even an arched window but a the thankful window. Gotta love those thankful windows, man.

Just like yesterday and every day prior so far, we didn’t wake up dead. That can have it’s own ‘yeehaa’.

I think this is our boy and not some Hindu dude in a temple

My first wife can be a raggety ol’ hag when she’s pissed off with me but she does have the most beautiful smile and already this morning she’s shared it with me heaps. Not so much a couple days ago though ‘cos she was perfecting her annoyance skill.

We have also reconnected with heaps of people who we hadn’t seen for ages and we didn’t even have to die to do it. Usually those ‘we should catch up more’ comments only really eventuate at funerals after some cunt died.

People have offered and provided so much to us as a family. Some we have accepted, some we even accepted without even knowing we had done so until after the fact and some offers we haven’t taken up because seriously man, how the fuck do you respond to those ‘if you ever need anything let me know’ comments? It’s kinda a hard one aye. But to those people who still want to help us, just keep being good cunts.

Some pommy mates, yes even though they’re poms

This morning the ol’ girl was trying on heaps of old dresses that no longer fit because I’d turned into a fat cunt and she was building reserves for winter and neither of us were the skinny like worms people we used to be. Who’d have thunk it, but all those years that her clothes had been stashed away in the hope that one day she might get bowel cancer and lose heaps of weight would finally pay off.

Because she now fits them, I don’t need to buy her new clothes. It’s like going to the Op shop and picking clothes off the shelf for free that you already love because you already decided that when you bought them the first time around. Saves heaps of time and money and none of you sheilas even think about bringing up the ‘no longer in style’ argument because all styles (fuck even the 80s) come back into fashion.

See what I mean about all these positives?

Since joining a bunch of online cancer groups we have again realised how lucky we actually are. Cancer really is a cunt of a thing. Hearing all these real life stories and experiences of how cancer has fucked good people over is so so so sad. It certainly makes me very much appreciate that although my cook has stage four cancer, she ain’t half as fucked up as heaps of other people who have already lost loved ones or are way more fucked up and therefore have a cunt of a life as a result.

So here’s a big ass ‘FUCK YEAH’ for our situation being as good as it can be.

Considering it’s Marjana’s good week she hasn’t really been the flashest to be honest and has felt a bit shit. She still has that vertigo thing hanging around, doesn’t have heaps of energy and is a bit wonky on her feet.

Octopus salad, mashed potato and spinach with fried egg, lamb rack, my Dally style spuds and massive t-bones in two.separate rubs

But the All Blacks pulled off a bloody great effort against the Wallabies last Saturday and the Maroons came back and pipped those New South Wales Mexican bastards from south of the border in Origin One.

The All Blacks (ABs) play the final Bledisloe Cup game at Suncorp tonight too. Initially we weren’t gunna go ‘cos my first wife wasn’t up to it but she’s keen as so we’re off to watch that game with some good mates.

Just on that note, I seriously considered not going as a national service to my country because every single time I watch the ABs play at Suncorp they lose. A few of my Aussie mates really want me to go for that reason alone. Maybe I should get ’em to buy me tickets to all their test matches in the hope I am their nemesis 😉

But we have already won this year’s Bledisloe so I’m going anyway. The Wallabies will even be in with a chance tonight, not only because I’m going but also the fact the AB’s grabbed some Under 11s primary school kids to replace some of the senior All Blacks. It kinda evens it up so if the coaching staff are willing to take a chance, then so am I.

Things may change for us and all my posts won’t be this positive but for now, this beer followed by this Jagermeister is for appreciating the good things in life.

How ya going with ya chemo?

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