Kitty’s Got a Gun
A New Hampshire man was cleaning his loaded gun when it fell off a workbench and discharged (of course), striking the individual in the stomach. He was taken to the hospital by his wife, police told Newsweek. Why an ambulance wasn’t called, is a mystery.
The hospital contacted the police who spoke to the man about the shooting. Law enforcement then went to the couple’s rented home to look around because they were treating the property as a crime scene.
The authorities found a large cache, not of guns, but cats. There were over 70 felines from kittens to older cats wandering around the house.
“There was an overwhelming odor coming from inside the residence,” Kensington Police Chief Scott Cain said in a news release. “It was discovered (the) inside was completely covered in feline feces and urine.”
The ammonia levels in the house were way beyond safe and a health officer declared the building was uninhabitable and condemned it immediately.
The SPCA was called in to remove the animals. Some of the cats were seen laughing and joking as they were taken away. Meanwhile the police ruled the shooting “accidental.” But was it?
I mentioned the story to Chester who had his suspicions about the incident being a mishap.
“Over 70 of my brothers and sisters living in a cesspool,” Chester snarled. “If I was in that house, I’d be looking for a little payback. No way that was an accident. The only question I have is, did it take more than one cat to pull the trigger?”
Good question. I was coming around to Chester’s thinking.
A dog could do it alone. We know, because several Americans have been shot by their pet Fidos. The method canines use is to either jump on the weapon or pull the trigger with their leg. In all cases the shootings were ruled accidental.
But what about the New Hampshire incident? These cats had the means, motive and opportunity to shoot this guy. My guess is, his wife could have suffered the same fate, but she dodged the proverbial bullet.
Speaking of bullets, did this Billy the Kid think he was cleaning a loaded or unloaded gun? If he thought it was unloaded, then one of those cats has great paw dexterity. There must have been a polydactyl cat among those seventy-plus house prisoners.
While Chester was listening to Eric Clapton’s version of “I Shot the Sheriff,” I was beginning to appreciate this “alleged” criminal act.
Assuming Chester is right (and he is), then this is a crime without consequences. Dogs and cats face capital punishment, aka euthanasia, for aggressive behavior like biting or scratching people; but there’s no law on the books, legal or veterinary, about a pet shooting its owner that ends with the animal being put down. It’s the perfect crime!
If you’re a gun owner who mistreats your pets, I suggest you watch your back and lock your weapons away.
Supposing that you want to reduce the likelihood of getting clipped by your cat. I recommend you read “How to Talk to Your Cat About Gun Safety,” by Zachary Auburn. Do it as soon as possible, especially if you have kittens, because they learn faster. It may be your only chance.
Happy Cat Hour
For a do-nothing cat, Chester gets jealous rather quickly when he hears about the success of other felines. Such was the case with a cat in Canada he read about online.
Donald, a very friendly cat in the town of Sackville, New Brunswick got a beer created in his honor.
“I don’t get it,” Chester said, puzzled at such a thing. “What’s so special about him?”
“Of course, you don’t get it,” I said. “You are the most unsociable cat ever. You run away at the first sighting of anyone other than Lily (my daughter who owns the cat), Genifer (my wife) or me.”
The adopted Donald, likes to follow his owner, Tobias Paul, or anyone else walking around town, like a dog. Donald will even try to march into people’s homes.
“Like a dog,” Chester said quizzically. “How insane do you have to be for a cat to act like a dog?”
Donald’s amiable personality got noticed by several citizens in the community of just over 5,000 people, and a Facebook group was formed to talk about him.
Molly Tomlik, a member of the online group wrote, “Donald is an actual cat, yes. But doesn’t he represent more? A sense of freedom; of community; an openness and boldness; the assumption that everyone is a friend and everywhere is home.”
“This guy has a fan club,” Chester said sarcastically. “Assume this cat is nuts, Tomlik, and so is your group,” Chester said in a raised voice.
“I know friendship isn’t in your vocabulary,” I countered. “But do you see how people react to a cordial kitty? You could learn something from this, Chester.”
“Yeah, don’t act like a dog when you’re a cat,” the tormented tabby growled back. “And of course, he wants to get into people’s homes; he’s a cat burglar for crying out loud! I should know, I did time in the penitentiary for such a thing.”
But the aspect of the story that almost sent Chester into apoplectic shock, was Donald getting a brew specially made in his name.
Sackville has a microbrewery called, Bagtown Brewing Company. Jean-Paul Lavoie, who founded the Facebook group, came up with the idea to drum up support for the suds factory to concoct a new drink in honor of Donald, which happened.
The milk stout, which comes close to matching the cat’s black coat, is called, “Donald – A Sackville Cat,” and quickly became a hit.
“Chocolaty flavours and delicious sweet fruity characteristics are abundant in this brew,” Bagtown’s Facebook site says. “A lactose (milk sugar) addition enhances these characters with that extra sweetness and provides a subtle creamy smooth feel. Low carbonation levels maintain the smoothness and makes this a very easy sipper.”
Bagtown’s new brew, which was only offered in cans, was selling as fast as they could make it.
After I pushed Chester’s jaw back up from hitting the floor, he was beside himself.
“You’re telling me this kleptomaniac, crazy cat with a personality disorder in which he thinks he’s another species, got a drink created in his honor,” Chester screamed. “They must all be high on synthetic catnip in Canada!”
“Let’s say you did something, anything, to warrant a drink created on your behalf, what would it be called,” I asked, trying to calm Chester down.
“I can think of a few names,” Chester said as his focus was diverted to himself and not Donald. “Chesterita, Chester and Tonic, Chester Martini, Chesterpolitan, to name a few. Of course, all these wonderful libations would be made with a splash of natural catnip.”
“I bet you have some good names as well to honor moi,” Chester inquired in a coy manner.
He shouldn’t have asked.
“Whiskey Sour Puss, Same Old-Fashioned Chester, Hot Tempered Chester Toddy, Chester Zombie, to name a few,” I responded with a straight face as I waited for an object to whizz by my head.
All I got was the Chester stare, which is a perturbed look coupled with sideway ears; what we call in our home, “airplane ears.”
The silence from Chester was deafening and I started to worry about my safety. I may have pushed him over the edge. So, I had an idea; I’ll read him “How to Talk to Your Cat About Gun Safety.” Then I remembered we don’t have any guns, unless Chester snuck one in.
Now I need a drink. I wonder how a Chesterita tastes?
The Chester Chronicles 