The Barge of Beaverton

The Barge

Your cat is weird, I get it. The weirdest cat ever. This is largely due to the fact that your cat is indeed a cat, and all cats are weird. These little slinky beasts have adapted to our frankly bizarre reality, yet somehow have retained quite a bit of their feral nature. I’m guessing this is why your Billy Bob Thornton (a popular cat name) occasionally sh*ts in the bathtub, or why One-Eyed Willy over there feels the need to get up on top of stuff it can’t get down from gracefully. 

Now, I have three cats. First you’ve got Beats, a tiny Manx whose back legs are longer than the front and so he walks all cock-eyed, just before sitting on your face and drooling all over your shoulder. And then there’s Yuri, the orange udderedly one, who logically has an aggravated Cheeto fetish and can’t manage to cover his own poop.

And then, there’s Wembles, and this is where I challenge your barometer for what’s “weird.” “Or just gross.”

Watching the new hit series “Insatiable” on Netflix

Officially Wembley-Don Von Lipschitz, this Maine Coon weighs in at nearly 30 lbs. His hair, which sometimes looks like the contents of your vacuum bag (and indeed is the contents of ours), gets up to 5 inches long and has to be shaved off once a year so as to prevent dreadlocks and deadly dingleberries. It’s so long around his neck that when it grows out he can’t clean himself, only getting a mouthful of neck fur. He has an aversion to water that results in freakish screaming with the timbre and amplitude of ten human children, and has been known to actually perforate the drywall as he crawls sideways across it to get away from the tub, Matrix style. His breath, despite all of our efforts, is like a rotting fish market full of moldy, sour Cheerios, and if you’re unlucky enough to get your nose near his gaping pink maw while he’s purring, he’ll motorboat that foul air right up your nose. Trust me when I say you’ll still be tasting it an hour later-—in your ear. On the plus side, he eats a hell of a lot of bugs, so that wind probably has protein content.

Rough ridin’.

Wembles was born with an autoimmune condition that causes his skin to swell up now and again, usually on his face-—hence the Lipschitz. However, it doesn’t seem to bother him one bit, as he has mastered taking on the form of a barge, and often lays flat on his back, spread eagle with his arms and legs pointing out in all directions. Not unlike a gross snow angel, with a weird part in his belly hair that makes it look like a costume toupee. Part of this is due to his being a bit overweight, as his chub serves as a left and right counterweight to itself, but I suspect this posture arose from the fact that he just doesn’t know how to do anything right. It literally took him three years from birth to jump for the first time. He sits on the couch like a person. He runs from his own turds at breakneck speed after they fall from the jungle of his anus. We’re not sure if this is because he’s trying to dissociate himself from the evidence, or because the poopies are literally scaring him.

Beyond that, the dude has a thing for feet. It has waned as his interests have become more cultivated, but for the first half of his life he refused to get near your face, and would spend most of his day trying to wrap himself like a python around your feet. This was mostly seized upon with a move we call “the flop,” where he’ll walk just past your leg and then lean hard towards it, capsizing his entire body onto your foot and then rolling around to grab it in a bear hug. Tired of his bullsh*t and decide to just keep walking? Wembles doesn’t really care, and is hap

Experiencing a case of the dumbs

py being scooted and dragged across the floor. In fact, he likes this so much, we’ve had him literally fall asleep while being swung back and forth across the kitchen tile by his chest hair. Consequently, he’ll also start nodding off after a while if you pick him up upside-down and let him hang in mid-air.

When he’s not doing any of this, he’s guarding one of the three food bowls we have to put out so the other cats can eat, chilling up on his stuffed llama, or passed out in a face plant on a turbo tornado track. Either that or just following random people around vocalizing his emphysematous “Mow” over and over and over again. As it turns out, shouting “WEMBLES SHUT THE (*^#@#! UP!” only makes it worse.

But hey, we tolerate it. Even if only because these last few traits help prove that he’s actually a cat, and not some kind of weird genetic landfill / shag carpet hybrid.

By Johnny Beaver

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