Origin & 1st: Wolfgang

Ladies and gentlemen, the subject of the evening.

Ladies and gentlemen, the subject of the evening.

…And then one day, this cat was just sitting out there. He was a frail, skinny guy with a head far too big for his long, bony body. When a cat’s so thin that his bones are visible despite his long fur, you can tell he’s possibly a cat model, maybe has feline AIDS, or just might have escaped from a cat concentration camp. With no striped, cat-sized pajamas around, let’s breathe easy and be sure that the cat concentration camp doesn’t exist.

I’d look out the back window and see him there with the other alley cats, getting their steady diet of chicken wing bones and assorted carcass gristle, and only rarely did I see him go to chow-town on some food. Long Grey, as his name once was, just never seemed like he could get in on the good stuff with Fudgie and the broad-shouldered Short Grey dominating the feasts as they came.

Fudgie, short for Fudgie Caramela, is simultaneously the alley slut and the queen of the back-street monarchy. And she’s no figurehead; Fudgie fucks, but she also fucks up almost every male cat that comes around her neighborhood.

Unfortunately, and in much the same way as the sperm that eventually enter her cat body, one of these alley cats makes his way through, proceeds to have sex that sounds much more like Wrestlemania than any sort of mating I’ve ever understood, and then a few months later, there are a number of calico, orange, grey and white cats all over the alleyway.

We’ve been here for two years now, and it typically follows that most of these cats either die on back porches, become splattered messes on streets, or just disappear. Like they’re abducted and placed in cat tubs of ice after their choice organs are removed.

“Hey man, if you can make it, you can make it. Here’s a gun.”


-The Third-World Cats Who Abducted You and Took Your Cat Kidneys

The thing that was so different about Long Grey, though, is that he had a collar. I saw him close-up with that thing on one day as I was pulling up behind the house. He had his collar, and I saw it better by the moment because this was a cat that liked humans, wanted a good pet, a good scratch, maybe a hoagie or something. This is Philly, after all.

What was certain is that Long Grey was someone’s pet, which was confirmed a minute or two later when a cute little black girl came along and let me know that the cat was hers. Handed him over and thought nothing of it, except that the little girl was lucky to have such a loving little cat, because Long Grey knew me for a couple of minutes at best, and already wanted to hang out with me & mine more than just about anything.

A week or two passed, and Long Grey was still all over the alley, following a few steps behind Fudgie Caramela, occasionally getting screamed at and scratched by her. There was also a larger, darker grey cat in the mix, and his addition is where things get interesting.

Holy shit, right? He also prepares his own taxes and cooks in the style of Jean-Yves Escoffier.

Holy shit, right? He also prepares his own taxes and cooks in the style of Jean-Yves Escoffier.

The days of Long Grey’s collar were inexplicably over, and no little girls were picking him up and bringing him home anymore. He was getting soaked with the rest of the alley cats, much as he once was. Turns out, after a bit of reflection, I realized that he was one of the survivors of one of Fudgie’s kamikaze litters. No wonder I’d seen him since he was the smallest, tiniest of kittens. No wonder he was still so thin; he was still so young! Long Grey, it seemed, was on the brink of something big. And that something big was going to be something bad. I worried that I’d be picking him up and putting him in a garbage bag well before his natural time. And I don’t know what to do with a dead cat, because there’s no Native American burial ground in my neighborhood where one goes to bury his own.

That said, one day the Wrestlemania sex was going on in broad daylight, so I peeked out the window and saw Long Grey getting his fuck on with Fudgie. You know, Fudgie Caramela, his mom. HIS MOM. Eventually, I guess she conceded, or whatever it is when you just stop screaming, and he might have sealed the deal. I don’t have binoculars. Then, he resumed his practice of following a few steps behind and looking small.

Then, a couple of days later, that larger, darker grey cat was fucking Fudgie. And from all indications, he was throwing down like Lexington Steele on poor Jenna Haze. I’m well aware that cats supposedly don’t derive pleasure from sex, so this must’ve felt like Other Grey was installing a 2nd lane for rush-hour traffic inside of Fudgie Caramela’s body. So, that’s the first thing I saw, and I’m a curious man, so I watched. Not like a creep, but…well, I guess one can’t escape being a creep in this situation.

The 2nd thing I saw initially scared me, but then pretty much broke this heart of mine. You know how, when a shot is framed in a horror movie, it’s not always the action right in front of you that should be your focus? There’s something in the background, or off to the side, and that’s where the filmmakers want you to look, and they want it to be abnormal so that you get jolted into paying attention…maybe to set up a scare. Or maybe it’s a clue to the mystery they’ve offered you.

Well, in this case, I casted my gaze to the left and saw Long Grey, sitting on the concrete and watching this other cat fuck Fudgie Caramela. He didn’t seem angry; I’m actually not sure he can even get angry. He just sat there and looked, almost like a spectator. Spectator at a fatal car crash.

So, let’s recap Long Grey: born of Fudgie Caramela, taken inside & given a collar, becomes an indoor cat. Some murky details, and then Long Grey is no longer an indoor cat, and his collar is gone. Has sex with his mother. Gets totally cuckolded as he watches another man have sex with his mother. Gets into a lot of fights, is too small to win. Skinny as hell and more pathetic by the day.

So, for all of that, Long Grey now lives with us, because he still likes humans and shows appreciation for the simplest things. He’s not some asshole cat, so he gets a new home. This feels like it’s the way things should go. He got neutered, which might not have been the happiest of circumstances for him, but he also no longer has a fucking clue that it even happened.

Beebo, the other perfect cat we have. Those bacteria in cat turds have entered my brain.

Beebo, the other perfect cat we have. Those bacteria in cat turds have entered my brain.

He gets all the dry food he wants, and a can of wet food every day. We’re working on split shifts for him and our cat Beebo, who was here first and so must come first. They haven’t found their common ground yet, so Long Grey gets the sunroom at night, while Beebo is left to the bedroom during the day. So far, this system works, but if you have cats, you’re already insane for them, and this naturally means that you want them to be with you at the same time, because that’s twice as cute and you want your head to explode.

Loves this stuff. Made completely of babies, it's called the Modest Proposal Delight.

Loves this stuff. Made completely of babies, it’s called the Modest Proposal Delight.

And about that food! Long Grey wants turkey? He gets a bite. Chicken fat? Go ahead. Mayo? I’m now curious as to whether all cats like mayo, considering his and Beebo’s affinity for it. He gets baths and spray-downs, and he loves it all. He’s where he should be.

No man should ever fuck his mother and then have to watch as another man fucks his mother…outside…on the ground…in broad daylight. This is Oedipus Rex, but somehow worse. Unlike Oedipus, Long Grey chose to keep his eyes, fully knowing that he might one day cast them upon horror again. Rip the eyes out when you can no longer bear sight; Long Grey can still bear sight.

And finally, he’s no longer Long Grey. That’s a name to use when cats mean nothing. Long Grey is Wolfgang. Wolfgang is Wolfie G. Wolfie G is Little Man. Little Man is Wolfenstein 3D. Wolfenstein 3D is Amadeus. Amadeus is Teen Wolf. Teen Wolf…is Wolfgang. Wolfgang’s my son.


About xtopherjacques

I'm an unreliable narrator, which is supposed to be the fun of it. I'd imagine it's a lot more fun to be led off a cliff if it feels like a circus until it happens. Oh, I'm an average guy; I respirate and dream. Here, I'll talk a lot about both. There will likely be too much talk about bodily fluids of varying viscosities for one's liking, but I refuse to change that until it bores me. Thankfully, I also have healthy obsessions with foods (it might get weird), body washes and obscure media. I also talk a lot about my house being haunted and possessed, neither being true. All of those things should keep this all interesting enough. I sure hope so.

Posted on 07/13/2013, in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

  1. Wolfgang is quite a looker. I’m glad to hear you found each other.

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