Orange Julius

I tried to get rid of our cat yesterday.

Before you call P.E.T.A. to throw blood on my front porch, hear me out. (And see my previous post about solicitors, because showing up to douse me in blood would be the very definition of “making it weird”).

I love cats. Hell, I love almost all animals. I’m the crazy person that swerves into your lane and almost kills us all because I can’t even drive over an already dead animal in the road. But the thing is, we were never meant to have a cat— not really.

You may recall when we rescued three baby kittens and bottle fed them for a month straight, before finally finding a private shelter that could care for them and find them good homes. Well, we found ourselves rescuing two more kittens one day— because the neighborhood calico can’t keep her paws together— and the hunt for a home continued again. But while we searched, Declan became incredibly attached to one of them. So my parents agreed to take the other one and we all found ourselves one litter box heavier.

This cat is the devil.

He ripped multiple holes in our custom blinds, attacks you when you walk or stand still or breathe, refuses to let you sleep, destroyed our couch, makes Declan curl into a ball of fear as he claws at him, and sprayed my clean underwear.

My underwear.

I’ve never in my life seen a cat as out of control as this one, and I’ve seen a lot of crazy ass cats.

In truth, he’s been making our lives miserable for months, but I think we were too prideful to admit failure.

But when he started to spray Declan’s toys and finally his bed, we had had enough. The decision was made that we needed to take him to a no-kill shelter so that he could find a new forever home.

I felt a weight in the pit of my stomach as we drove. I almost turned around twice at the thought of him being stuck in a cage until someone came along to adopt him— if they ever did. But I powered through and made it to SPCALA.

I scooted in, with the cat and two kids in tow, and was immediately asked why I was bringing my cat in.

I lied. Told them we were moving into a smaller place that didn’t allow pets. I felt ashamed and also, I didn’t want to diminish his chances of being taken by telling them what an asshole he was.

When they asked me where we live I told them the truth, and that’s when the woman’s eyes lit up, like she was just looking for a reason to tell me she couldn’t take my cat.

“You’re not in our jurisdiction. If you want to leave your cat it’s going to be $189”.

I immediately started crying because..

1. I’m an emotional women

2. It’s been a week

3. I had my arms full with two kids and now I was going to have to take them and this cat back into my car.

I asked her if she would have taken my cat if I had just lied and said we lived in that city. To which she replied that she understood how harsh her words seemed but that it is how they stay open for business and that even if I lied it still would have cost me $80.


So I packed up the kids and the damn devil cat and headed back home.

When I texted my husband telling him what happened, he said it was a sign that we were supposed to keep the cat, and immediately scheduled a neutering appointment for him in the morning.

I woke up this morning in a rush. A rush to get the kids ready and myself ready and the cat ready. I packed up the car and realized the only things I remembered were the kids and the cat. I forgot to eat breakfast. I forgot to pack Declan’s Easter eggs for school. I forgot his lunch pail. I felt resentful towards the cat for all of these things. If it wasn’t for his appointment I wouldn’t have been rushing.

Just then, it was as if he knew I was thinking about how much he sucked, because he purred at me and pressed his face against the carrier. I reached out and gently pet his cheek, and for the first time in forever, he didn’t try and bite me. He just let me pet him. When we arrived to the vet, I ushered him in with two kids in tow, and the receptionist asked, “Is this your cat. Is this Orange Julius?” I looked down at his point orange ears perked up, then back to her and replied, “yes, he’s mine. This is my cat.”

And just like that, the cat that made his way inside of SPCALA yesterday, found his way back into our family.

Time will tell if neutering him calms him down. If it doesn’t stop him from beating up on my kids then we will have to rethink his position in this household again. But for now, he’s got a cozy spot on the edge of the couch with his name on it, and I’m willing to give him another chance if he’s willing to take it.