Bentley's Balls - by Eliza Skinner

There was no question about Bentley’s balls. They had to go. His meowing was getting really out of control and I promised myself a few boyfriends ago that I would never let another dude pee all over my apartment. Plus, all that testosterone was useless - he’s got no game. I’ve always thought it must be terrible for pets to want something so badly with their entire little bodies, but have no idea what it is or any means to get it. So, let’s just get rid of the balls.

I was still not entirely sold on being a pet owner. Bentley’s body was already remarkably big, but his head wasn’t catching up at all - giant body + tiny head = the opposite of cute. He was loud and messy and often seemed angry with me for having a job. I sometimes wondered if I’d be upset if he ran away. It’s not like even I picked him out - I found him starving in a junkyard, I HAD to take him home.

Later, when the vet stopped swinging Bentley around and put down his stethescope, he said they couldn’t operate on him because he has a heart murmur. Apparently you can only hear it when he’s agitated, which is almost never (usually the problem is trying to get him to stop purring) so the vet had to shake him around to hear it. Which was hilarious looking, but now I felt guilty about laughing at it. He gave me the number for a specialist and told me not to worry, and mentioned that even though Bentley was gigantic he was still a kitten so there was no rush on the nuetering.
When I got home I signed up for health insurance for Bentley and made an appointment with the cat cardiologist. I decided not to worry until someone told me to worry, and plus - he’s pretty much a roommate, we just live together. Sure, he sleeps on my head, purrs when I come home, and follows me everywhere - but there’s no major commitment here. I’m not a cat lady, and we never chose each other.

At the cardiologist’s they did the regular routine - weighing him, listening to his heart, checking his teeth - and then told me they had to take him away from me for his MRI. Which was suddenly awful. I sat down in the waiting room and started to fidget and worry. I hoped he wasn’t scared - he hadn’t been alone outside the apartment since he moved in. He was just a kitten - he still hadn’t lost his baby teeth! What if they switched him by mistake and tried to give me some other cat and he got lost forever?! What if his heart was all broken and he got scared and agitated with all those strangers and machines and it exploded or something??

I started wandering into the back hallway where I had last seen Bentley, walking away with the vet, and bumped right into her. All the assistants were fawning all over him “he’s so cute!” “such a sweet cat! He purrs so much!” and I wanted to slap their hands away and say “yeah, but he’s mine, bitch. Get your own.” The vet handed him back to me and said he was fine, it was just a minor congenital murmur, and that he was a perfect American Shorthair and could probably be a show cat. Which is true because we are a gorgeous family.

I went to the window and paid, literally shaking with relief. Turns out this little asshole who broke my phone and would soon shit behind my sofa is my cat. And I am his person. And –holy shit, $491?? That is a pricey MRI! Good thing I got pet insurance…except 2 weeks later they denied my claim because it was a “pre-existing condition”. Motherfucking health care in America!!!

At least they paid for his neutering a month later. He now has stumpy little used-to-be-balls, and a gut. Without a need to chase tail and lust after pussy, he has turned all of his attention to eating constantly and watching reality TV - we really are a family.

But shit, $491? Look, I don’t make any money off this blog, but if you feel like paying me back for any chuckles I might have instigated, click on the link below. It’ll go straight to Bentley’s heart."

Eliza Skinner is a comedian/actress. Visit her web site at elizaskinner.net. And check out this hilarious bit of video.