Have you ever had to help a friend into a taxi, after he/she had had waaaaaay too much to drink? Know how they have no control over their extremities, but they think they're helping you by flailing randomly, and continually expressing their semi-concious appreciation for you help?

"Yerr ffffuckin grrreat, mannn .... whaddoodidoo without you? Yerrsogood to me ..." etc., as you stuff their dead weight into the cab and pray that they don't spew on you or the already nervous driver.

That's what it was like yesterday afternoon, getting Ziggy into the cat carrier to take him home from the vet after he'd had his balls removed.

He's OK. He's more than ok, actually. He's Jim fuckin' dandy, going by the totally coked-out expression on his face. I was afraid that he'd be mad at me, but I daresay he was thrilled to see me. His normally spunky, ghettopunk voice was toned down a notch or two, and had taken on a decidedly potheaddish quality. It has yet to be decided whether this mellowness was due to the still-present effects of the anaesthesia, or to the sudden stemming of testosterone, as the medication hasn't worn off yet. But, man, Ziggy's like a floppy stuffed animal.

I arrived to pick him up at the vet's, and approached the cage where he was waiting. He turned around and looked at me with hooded, golden eyes, gave me a big grin, and said, "Heeeeeeyyyy, Maaaaannnn ... Don't I know you? Haw haw haw ..."

He was like putty as I packed him up to go home. He fruck out for a few moments in the cab, once realizing that he couldn't open the cat carrier, ("Maaaannn, these walls are, like, closing in on me, man! This is soooo not cool!") but once we got home, he was fine. Walking really funny, as if there was a wine bottle shoved up his ass, but otherwise fine. He laid on my belly for a few minutes to cuddle and reconnect, but then went into the bathroom, where he promptly passed out on the tiles by the toilet. We've all done that before, right? And it always seems like such a good idea at the time.

I suppose it didn't help matters that I welcomed him home with some primo catnip buds, sprinkled on the carpet as a sort of preemptive apology, an "I'm sorry I had you de-testicled" peace offering. For those of you not familiar with the herb, catnip is like kitty weed, cut with ecstasy and crack. That, combined with the residual post-op anaesthesia, has put Ziggy in such a state that he hasn't yet noticed that anything's missing.

Poor kid. Though I laugh aloud at the way he's walking, I do feel bad. He must be so confused. I suppose it's best to do it while he's young, before he gets involved with da ladeez. It would be just awful for him to form romantic attachments and then watch his sex drive fly out the window.

Speaking of "fly out the window," I was wondering, what happens to the the amputated balls once they've been removed?

Sorry ... I know I just caused a wave of cringes to ripple throughout any male readers.

But, let me just say this: Men, I understand why, to you, castration is a VERY wince-worthy subject. But, a vasectomy seems like a much simpler and less invasive process than a hystorectomy. Can't say I'm terribly objective, though.

Oh, God, now I'm wincing.

I hope Ziggy's not hung over when he comes out of this.

For more of The Adventures of Ziggy and Luvabeans, see:

Volume I: Another Step Towards Spinsterhood

Volume II: Blanket Monster

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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