The Cat’s Cuspidor

Feline immunologist Dr. Adolf Yin relaxing at home

Cats are ninety-seven percent spit.

It’s true – I’m not making this up.

It’s been scientifically proven that when you stroke a cat you’re actually running your fingers through layers of dried saliva laid down every time the cat cleans itself.

Your home is their spittoon.

You can’t see it, and you definitely can’t feel it, but if you’re at all sensitive you’ll soon realise it exists. You’ll suffer the histamine flood of death, because once one of the feline bastards rubs up against you it’s party time for your mucous cells.

Histamine. Evil stuff

Out will pour huge amounts of thick slippery goop, flooding every orifice in your body and filling every dry cavity you possess.

Your eyes will itch; your nose will drip and you’ll suddenly become a walking snot factory.

I should know; I cop it every time I go to my girlfriend’s place.

Mr. Yin is everywhere. He sheds his white hair, and like tiny allergenic daggers it scatters chaotically around the house, forming large furry balls in every corner of the room. Carried on warm air-conditioned zephyrs it settles on the furniture and sticks to my clothes, and as I walk around it clings doggedly to my black socks, turning them into mobile lamingtons.

His microscopic dander floats through the air. I see it hanging there, defying gravity in the shafts of light streaking through the front window. It enters my nose and my eyes, causing an instant allergic reaction.

Within seconds I’m a lather of snot, the Mast cells within my body rallying to my defence, sending floods of histamine into the fray.

I drown in my own liquid.

Dream on, fur-ball…

I now travel with seventeen boxes of antihistamine pills, nine different nose-sprays and two cartons of tissues.

That’s right – cartons.

And it’s still not enough.

Take last night for example. Sitting with Maree watching an episode of The Big Bang Theory I blew my nose incessantly, trumpeting like a rutting Bison as tissue after tissue became soaked. No “unravelling the mystery” required there Sheldon, that big bang didn’t happen fourteen billion years ago; it happened in March 2009, the month I first visited Mr. Yin’s house.

The problem is, the drugs no longer work, and I’ve now reached the stage where surgery is needed. It’s now time to let the experts have a crack with their laser probes and rotating knives.

When I recover I should possess air passages that actually shift air and not wobbly balls of thick, green jelly. I’ll once again marvel at the fragrance of my lady’s perfume, the smell of her hair, and the beautiful sweet scent of her skin.

My bedroom walls will no longer shake to the thunderous fury of my nostrils flogging themselves to pieces.

The bane of my existence will be gone.

Well, one of them at least.

Evil Incarnate

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2 responses to “The Cat’s Cuspidor

  1. You appear to be getting close to a line Terry, a line you don’t want to cross. As long as Mr Yin is not allergic to you, everything will be okay. If he decides you make him sneeze, you might be the one who ends up at the taxidermist.

  2. I agree. Apparently the protocol is that I’m the interloper here, and can be voted off the island at his whim.

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