Cat Wars Part 3

Fucko the Clown is back from a day trip to the pet hospital to have three teeth yanked out of his skull. Put in the context of the recent cat wars, how does that affect the cat versus cat power equation? It's generally positive. A day after Fucko the Clown—also known as El Pinche Payaso—returned from the pet hospital, the arbiters of the house have declared a cat wars armistice. Despite a few flat ears and hissy-breath from Chumbles upon Fucko's immediate return, the ensuing 24 hours or so have allowed each feline to decide that the tiny apartment is no Kashmir, and that the other cat is neither Pakistan nor India—you take your pick which.

Let's not overlook the fact that Fucko the Clown is getting a twice a day hit of some kind of pain reliever that's officially a controlled substance. Yes, when I fronted up at the pharmacy counter at the pet hospital I was confronted with a conversation that went something like this.

"And I'm going to give you these pre-measured pain killers for him. Do we have a copy of your driver's licence on file?"

"I don't think so. Why do you need that?" This is a pet hospital. What do they need with my DMV credentials?

"The pain killers are actually a controlled substance and we're required by law to precisely track who gets it."

Bizarre, huh? But when the stuff ends in "orphine" it's probably the source of a much better high than the shitty heroin sold on the corner of 24th and Folsom. Or at least that's what I'm guessing.

With the cat wars officially over I'm going to roll the dice of sleep and do my utmost to sleep as much of the night through as I can without being rudely interrupted at 4am by a blob of fur stomping across my chest, or by an ear-splitting cat screech baying for the feline on the other side of the bedroom door. May the force be with me.