The Birthday Boy

I use the term “boy” loosely because Matty turns the big 1-0 today.  Which is pretty old in kitty years, sort of like turning 30 in Hollywood.  Okay, maybe not THAT old, but no spring chicken, that’s for sure.

I couldn’t resist posting this picture of Matty sitting next to the “Time Out” stool I won in a random contest.  I assume you’re supposed to use the stool to make your toddler think about why he shouldn’t draw on grandma’s walls with poop again — unless it’s the other grandma’s — or to discipline husbands who put empty milk cartons back in the fridge; however, in MY household, Matty is the most deserving of time-outs.  Pretty much every day.  We all know why.  Because it’s his birthday, I will not mention his dirty habit except to note that a punishment “stool” is oh-so-apropos.

This is one of the only shots I was able to get of Matty next to the seat because he wanted to rub around my legs, desperate to be picked up.  This cat does not like to sit on people’s laps, but he is more than content to let us carry him around ALL DAY LONG.  Like dead weight.  No small feat, considering he weighs more than a small dump truck.  Carrying a load of James Gandolfinis.

Matty and Marcy share the same father — THAT cat was a total ho’ bag/playa — and Marcy’s birth mother, Leah, ended up nursing and taking care of Matty in his formative weeks because his mama was not a fan of being a parent, to the point of hissing at her own offspring.  Can’t blame her.  Having a ton of kids hanging from your teats when all you want to do is catch the latest “Dr. Phil” cannot be fun.

Mr. Candy was apprehensive when I declared I wanted a second cat, as he assumed that two would quickly snowball into thirty, with cats hanging from our chandeliers and whatnot.  I assured him that was just ridiculous; we didn’t even have a chandelier.

The breeder (yes, yes, we used a breeder, but will likely use a shelter in the future, so stop giving me that look!) grudgingly parted with Matty; he was the most handsome of all of her litters and, this being L.A. and all, she had visions of him eventually starring as the lead in “E.R.”  I convinced her that was just ridiculous; “E.R.” couldn’t possibly last more than a couple more seasons.  (Ah, well, what did I know?)

Baby Matty!  Now you see how Mr. Candy got suckered in.  Again.

Happy Birthday, Matty.  You may be a turd.  But you’re our turd.

Hugs, kisses and heaping bowls of Meow Mix,

Mom