Today, after work, I stopped by my girlfriend's house to visit the only other beings in this world that compete with her for my affections...her cats.

There's the big daddy, an all black, furry cat named Burgers, his twin sister, a calico, sweet syrup smelling cat named Peanut, and the newest, softest addition to the family, a grey and white striped kitty (actually she's more like a preteen now) named Trousers.

Growing up, the only pet my brother and I had t’was a frog named Frisky. Frisky jumped out of his little home after about a month and died tragically on the front lines, and so ended the pet dynasty in our household. I want a pet kitty, or two, so bad, but my parental units won't allow it, so I make due with my girlfriend's family's three little stinkers.

Her family also owns two dogs, a black beauty named Bella, who, one might say, is Aunt Jemima-esq, and Lady, who is just weird as fuck and looks like an aunt eater.

When I arrived, my girlfriend's mom was on her way out to coach her lacrosse team, so I was the lone ranger, the last line of defense for the kitties against the cold, capitalist, outside world.

Allow me to elaborate on why the outside world is the dead zone for the kitties:

During the summer, when I had first met my girlfriend (let’s just call her “Spartacus” from now on because writing “my girlfriend” is boring me), the patriarch of the kitties, King Charles, got hit by a car. Straight up no pulse. Needless to say he lost that chess battle against Death. A couple of months later, Burgers went out into the world during a snow storm and didn’t return until literally a month later when he was found in the basement of Spartacus’ neighbor's house (poor guy is still recovering from this psychologically traumatic experience. It didn’t help that he saw a marshmallow of a kitty had replaced him. He gets an extra dose of belly rubs from me whenever I’m over there). Moral of the story is that letting the cats outside is like entering your daughter into a beauty pageant…not smart.

I'm Burgers!

So of course, when I let the doggies outside to run around and sniff each other’s butts and eat grass, the little squirt-muffin, Trousers, squeaked by the closing door to embrace her inner curiosity. Since I had already fornicated myself in the b-hole, I decided to let the siblings out as well.

I was very intrigued to see how Burgers would react to being outside again after his traumatic experience. He calmly strutted a couple of feet, then assumed his mountain lion stance to perceive and listen to the chirps of birds, then strutted some more to the backyard, and stopped to the sound of the rustling of the trees. I think he decided he had experienced enough when he saw Trousers playing with Lady’s poop, which, coincidentally, was about the same time I decided I had experienced enough.

I was relieved when I got all the critters back into arena (I had to chase Trousers around for a good 15 minutes before I finally caught the little shit) and I was especially proud of Burgers, who I think made a huge step on his path to recovering psychologically.

Since then, Burgers has been knighted as Burgers the Brave by Spartacus, and the gladiator games of America continue to thrive on an under-the-radar basis. 

May only the truest of the warriors survive.