This is Milkshake
Oh, don’t let him fool you. He fools EVERYONE with the little baby white kitten routine. What Milkshake would really like to do after earning your trust, is to take your Blood! Human flesh and blood is tasty to this fellow. But people will still pick him up, cuddle him and then, “Ow! You fucker!” and repeat this cycle over and over because he does the, “oh did I do that? I’m so soweee, I’m just a siwwy widdle kitten” and then roll around on the floor in that cute way.
Milkshake also responds to the names: Boner, Polar Bear Butt, McMilkerstein, Honey Bear, Uncle Slappy, Uncle Chewy, Sparky, Princess, Twinkletoes, Jerk-shake, Fucker, Whitey, Cracker, Fuzz Nuts, Little Guy, Slappy McGillicutty and others I cannot even remember. The other problem? He knows he is handsome, and knows how to ham up the cute factor for sympathy.
Milkshake likes to chew and scratch…a lot. We’ve spent a good $200 the past couple of years just on replacing cables, wires, computer speakers, and two answering machines. He chews metal, and likes it. He took the platinum fountain pen as a personal challenge. Abusing my husband is his real passion though. Anyways, because of this, my apartment is in a constant state of chaos and our belongs get recycled often due to Milkshake putting them out of commission. I cannot have nice things, expensive things, luxury items or anything that might actually mean somthing to me. Milkshake had the knack for finding which ones of daddy’s records were worth $100 or more…out of a pile of a thousand LPs. That New Order LP mint condition since 1980? Undone in one swoop. I can’t shop like a normal person, not even furniture, because “what will Milkshake do to this-n-that?” It doesn’t help that two of our closet doors don’t shut all the way (faulty globbed painting and craftsmanship), or that he has actually learned to open doors himself by jumping and turning the knob. He turns every punishment we could think of, into a game. The water squirt bottle? Oh no, he thinks that is super fun! ‘It’s a game of tag!’ Getting a time-out? Oh, that’s silly, he’ll just cry and turn on the bathroom faucets until you let him out. Loud noises? ‘Whatever dude, I’m just going to nap in the other room and then chew on the stereo for a while’. He just won’t respond to threats I guess.
He has managed to destroy: All of my books, all of my husband’s records, all wood furniture, the curtains, the couch, the expensive-ass designer chair, the persian rug, the Kilim rug, all sets of bed linens, all sets of towels, my wedding dress, my favorite evening gown, two dresses I had bought and not even worn yet, my Prada fucking shoes, my wood heeled boots, anything made of leather, the TV console table, the TV wires, my Prada fucking handbag…oh you get the point. If I leave my birth control up on the counter for just a moment, he runs up, snatches it and then hides it somewhere.
Little teeth marks cover every surface of everything. He cries at 6am, takes nasty stinky poops, doesn’t like meat, only eats things that are white (like Mayo or ceasar sdressing) makes us bleed, slaps us while we’re asleep and is so needy that he can’t even be left alone for one full day (aren’t the point of cats is that they can take care of themselves?). I have never experienced a little bastard cat like this one.
But still, he’s my little guy.
Arty Farty 