It is so cold in my cubicle my nail beds are turning purple

Yesterday my father called me to let me know that he thinks my childhood cat might go to the Big Sandbox in the Sky any day now. This is hardly surprising as the cat is closing in on 20 years and apparently no longer does much in the way of eating. In true Stanimal fashion, though, this constitutes a tragedy in which no shred of light can be found.

Have I mentioned that, as a rule, my dad needs to lighten up?

So all this talk of elderly cats got me thinking about the creature you see here. This is Bobbie Socks. Bobbie Socks is the pet of my sasspot of a college roommate, Karen. I had the pleasure of living with Bobbie Socks from 1996-1998, and by "pleasure" I mean "not so much." If you think the Stanimal needs to lighten up, wait til you get a load of Bobbie Socks.

There are some things you need to know about Bobbie Socks in order to understand our antagonistic relationship, the first being that Bobbie Socks hates me. I don't take this personally, as Bobbie Socks hates everyone equally, as evidenced by her inclusion on this web site. Bobbie Socks hates being imprisoned by her vile human captors, and bides her time until she can make a break for it. This involves crouching by the door and darting outside the minute it is opened. The problem is that Bobbie Socks has always been an indoor cat, so when she gets outside she is petrified with fear and immediately runs and hides. I still bear the scars of that one fateful day in 1997 when Bobbie Socks made a mad dash for freedom 30 minutes before my physics final. She hid directly under the center of a parked car, and a sailor would have blushed at my language as I was reduced to laying on the ground and sliding an open can of tuna fish towards her with a stick. She would take a few bites, then I would slooowly slide the can a little further out. She would eat, I would slide, it was like an intricate dance routine that ended with me sliding the can out from under the car and then snatching up Bobbie Socks as she emerged for just a few more delicious bites. She tore my wrist up good with her back claws to pay me back for the indignity of being redeposited into her carpeted, three-room prison.

Ah, memories. There was also the time when Bobbie Socks got shut out from her litter box (oh Karen, Karen, what gourmet foods you cooked and essays you crafted but DAMN if that litter box didn't get STANKY between its three to four week cleanouts) over a Thanksgiving holiday and carefully chose my armchair as her urinal. (A week's worth of turds, meanwhile, were all neatly arranged under the coffee table.)

Which brings me back to my point of elderly cats. Bobbie Socks reluctantly moved on with Karen after college, still oppressed by her captor. A couple of years ago the plumber presented her with just the opportunity she was looking for, and Bobbie Socks ESCAPED. For DAYS. Karen was beside herself and papered the neighborhood with lost cat flyers. The hunger must have been too much to bear, because finally the cat returned to her hated prison. A couple of hours later, Karen gets a knock on her door. It's her mildy creepy neighbor from a few doors down.

Neighbor: I saw that your cat is lost.

Karen: Yeah, I was really worried about her because she's really old. But it's ok now, she just came back.

Neighbor: Oh. Because I was going to tell you, if she's really old, she probably went off somewhere to die.

Karen: ...

Neighbor: Would you like to have dinner with me some time?