My cat died this past week.
Ms. Dipstick Dee Dangles
(Her nickname, “Ms. Dipstick DollaBillz”, was the result of a drunk conversation about how my cat was more of a thug than me. Which is true.)
I’m not too sad and that sounds callous, but she had a really long life for a cat; a solid 16+ years.
I actually saw her being born and I think that was the moment that I decided I would never, ever had babies.
Dippy’s mom, Emma, was pregnant and all the children in the house had been warned that Emma was not allowed in anyone’s bedroom, because my mother wanted to prevent this exact scenario.
But, I snuck Emma onto my bed and about ten pages into a book, I glanced down to see a paw sticking straight out of her derrière.
Horrified, I slowly got off the bed and then ran to find my mother where I demanded she promptly remove Emma from my comforter before things progressed further.
Obviously this did not happen.
Instead, my mother called all the siblings into my room so we could witness first hand the miracle of life and that’s why I will never provide her with grandchildren.
Anyway, Dipstick was named after a puppy from 101 Dalmatians.
I really wanted a dog, but my parents said no and thus, in protest I named my cat after one.
Why I chose that particular dog, I have no idea.
I think I liked that the dog Dipstick had a tail that looked like a dipstick (the kind you test your car’s oil with). I like witty names.
I named one of Dippy’s brother’s Spotson, after Sherlock Holmes’ partner. (Spotson had a black spot on his back, hence the variation on Watson)
I was a weird child.
I’m not sure where I was going with this post, but in closing I’m going to say that Ms. Billz’s death was unfortunate and that it also marked the second time this year I got to use the excuse, “. . .because I have a dead cat in my car.”