Christmas Cat, The Furry Little Gift That Keeps On Pooping.

Two days before Christmas, Jason and I picked up the kids and took them to the animal shelter with the brilliant idea of getting a Christmas kitty.

Well, actually, let's rewind for a second.

For months we've been pestering Jason about getting a cat. My daughter would pull out the standard tween girl "awwww, look at the cute kitttttyyyy" whenever there was a cat in her eyeline.

"No. No more pets.", he would plainly say.

And then I would start in, "Yeah, but you love cats. They are so cuddly and cute."

"You're not helping me here. No."

Best of all, our son looooooves the titties. And he yells about it all the time. In the pet section of the discount store, "Mama, I love titties!"

"So do I kid", announced the old man next to us as I weakly smiled, my eyes darting side to side to see who was listening to his reptitious decree. The old man stroking the cat toys a little too fondly.

"Dada,I LOVE TITTIES!", he would announce, unprompted.

"Me too son, me too... but NO!"

And while The Dude does love the mammaries, the ones he so lovingly calls boo-boobs as he sticks his tiny hand down my shirt, it's really just his inability to pronounce the "K" sound that leads to these declarations of his amorous thoughts.

So it is with all of this in the back of his mind, Jason tells me one cold night that we would be getting a Christmas kitty.

I feel a little guilty repeatedly referring to him as the Christmas kitty, because this seems to denote some kind of miraculous gift or loving creature of our Lord. Like he may have been in the manger with sweet Baby Jesus. I'm quite sure that is not how his legacy will play out down the road after he kicks the feline bucket.

Gathering up the kids, we told them only that we'd be going to help someone for the holidays. As we pulled in, Monkey Girl's face lit up, but she tried to contort it to her duck-lipped poker face. It's not very pokerish. Walking into the building we quickly realized that pretty much every other harried parent on the planet had the same idea and mostly piss poor moods. Which is totally not the good deed demeanor, just so you know.

This is where I stop to ponder why exactly we picked this particular cat. Eying the bank of cats and all their cattiness felt a little surreal. Some were in rooms behind screen doors, like some wealthy little penthouse dwellers, others in stacked kennels, those were studio apartment cats. And then the ones that just randomly roamed and jumped on you - hobo kitties. Crazy ass hobo kitties.

It was all a blur of fur and flying paws. Sweet little kitty come hither looks and others swatting at their friends paws and looking like they'd shank you with catnip scented shivs if you even thought about saying "here kitty kitty..."

I noticed the Christmas kitty first. He looked me in the eye and perked up, making that little "brrrr" noise that indicates they want to love you. "Let me love you, nice lady" his bright little eyes flashed at me. I called everyone's attention to him and at that very moment he stood up and turned around and we all gasped simultaneously. Christmas kitty was missing a leg.

Yeah, YOU try walking away from a homeless, three-legged, bright eyed brrrring kitty two days before Christmas with two kids mewing "aaaawwwohhh, poor little kitty cat." "Mama! I want titty! I want that titty. Mammmmmaaaa... TIIIITTTTTY!"

"Give us that one, quick give us the tit- er, kitty with the three legs."

And as I watched three-legged Christmas kitty start to swat at his neighbors feet, it all came flooding back to me.

Cats are total dickheads. Nocternal assholes. Batters and jugglers of the noisiest trinkets hidden in dark corners in the night.

But it was too late. The kids were locked in on him and the paperwork was nearly complete.

So now here we are, the proud owners of a three-legged douchecat.

Christmas came and went.

New Year's Day came and went.

And still, kitty has no name. We call him kitty. We call him Pauly Walnuts when we're putting in effort. Mostly? We call him A-hole or Jerkface.

And even though I sound like the asshole here, you should know, we love kitty. And you have no idea what a complete doucharang you feel like when maybe you might toss a handicapped cat off the couch and he doesn't land on his feet. Instead he thunks, clumsily onto his little furry tail bone that still shows the regrowth of fur from where they shaved his butt when he his leg removal surgery.

You will hate yourself and question your upbringing.

And there isthe shame. Lots and lots of dirty shame.

Until three-legged kitty attacks your head in the middle of the night and as you are torn from your peaceful slumber and trying to process the burning, the stinging and the sound of ripping flesh (and the PAIN, what the hell is going on?!) then his claws dig in deeper as his one back foot slips out from under him and he is clinging to your bleeding scalp for dear life. The writhing, the flailing, the caterwauling. No really, what the hell is happening to my head? And finally kitty falls off, but not before he struggles to catch himself all the way down your left side before he crashes in a furry lump and then morphs into a hobbling flash of crazy yowling.

Handicapped kitty is no ninja.

More like sloppy, drunk hobo.