March 25, 2003
Spring is here. You want to know how I know this? I mean, besides the flowers blooming and the birds chirping and the calendar calending and whatnot? Yeah, they all give clues. But I know for a FACT that it is spring because my cat, Beavis, is shedding more fur than Sasquatch these days.
I truly do not understand it. Beavis is a small, cute little cat that weighs no more than 10 pounds -- and that's on a bad kitty bloating day. He's a medium-haired mutt with a strong tabby influence. He's also meticulously clean; he is known -- and I am not exaggerating -- to give himself a vigorous baths after I've been holding him, because GOD FORBID I would contaminate him with my filth.
Beavis is the kitty equivalent to a clean freak.
But then spring comes and he becomes the Hair Machine From Hell. Last weekend, I vacuumed my apartment, a task that took -- no joke -- two hours to accomplish. I filled an entire vacuum bag in my 980-square-foot apartment, most of it with kitty fur. And no, it has not been THAT long since I last vacuumed.
My question: How in tarnation is this possible? He is ONE SMALL CAT that weights SINGLE-DIGIT POUNDS, yet he produces enough fur to KEEP ALL OF SOMALIA WARM for a full winter.
The fur is everywhere. It's on my clothes. And I like wearing dark colors, but I CAN'T wear dark colors for fear of some PETA cretins coming along and dumping ketchup on me because they think I am wearing the pelt of some poor defenseless creature.
And you ought to see the lint collector in my dryer. This kitty fur is on my furniture. It's on my walls. My entire apartment is like one big yucky yellow Chia pet.
And then there's the matter of his stomach fur.
The hair on Beavis' stomach has to be one of the whitest, finest, softest substances known to man. It is, for reasons my addled brain cannot comprehend, one of the most adhesive substances known to mankind. When this fur plops down on a surface -- clothing, carpet, etc. -- it affixes itself to mightily that it is impervious to all efforts to get rid of it. It scoffs at lint brushes. It laughs at tape. And it simply ignores my expensive, high-power vacuum cleaner.
I am not exaggerating by much when I say that a nuclear bomb could hit my apartment, and the enormous resulting explosion would not lodge the Beavis fur. It would outlast the cockroaches and chase off other mutant-proof mongrels, such as members of Congress, before one wisp of cat fur budged.
The point is that this fur is driving me crazy. I can't escape it. It's everywhere. And I fear it will drive me truly insane. These terror alerts have nothing on the fur in my house.
And my dilemma: What can I DO about all this cat fur? Well, I suppose I could get rid of Beavis, but I've had the little guy for five years, and I've kind of grown attached to him. Plus, I don't know how many people would WANT a cat named Beavis anyway. In other words: Beavis and I are together for good.
So, I can't get rid of the little dude. I suppose I could shave him, but that's easier said than done. He's a pretty kitty now, but shaved, I fear he'd look really yucky and hideous, like a cross between Phyllis Diller and Donald Rumsfeld or something. And even if I were willing to try to shave him, I fear it wouldn't go so well. I've told the story in this space before about the time I had to give Beavis a bath because he decided to take a jaunt around the sooty fireplace. That experience damn near gave me a stroke.
I could try shellacking him, but that would probably end up causing harm, and even if it didn't, it could result in a visit from the PETA cretins, so that's certainly not an option.
Thus, I guess I have no choice but to endure the cat hair horrors. And if anyone is in need of some dark clothes that look like they need a serious dose of Nair, give me a holler.
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan in exile in Arizona. Jimmy's
column appears here Tuesdays, and a column archive may be viewed at
www.jimmyboegle.com.