As the transgender movement has swept the nation, I wonder if our cultural understanding of gender norms applies to animals too.
My precious feline, Oliver, recently went all Caitlin Jenner and had gender-reassignment surgery (we call him Cat-lin now). While his transition was primarily physical (and lacked the hormonal changes involved in most human sex-changes), his world was changed forever. It wasn’t his choice to become a female feline, but removing his penis was the only way to deal with his chronic blocked urethra. I knew this change was a challenge for him, and I figured I would help him adjust to his new role in society as trophy wife and non-voter (female cats still do not have the right to vote), I would ease that transition by calling him Olivia.
The road to recovery was a difficult one and my poor baby was in a lot of pain post-penile removal. He had me extremely worried. Initially I thought it might have been a botched vaginal reconstruction, or perhaps he was exhibiting signs of sympathy-menstruation. So I called my mom for support. Lola is such a strong woman, and she’s just so wonderful at helping me when I’m upset. You see, I just hate to see my baby in pain; and, as her baby, I would assume that she would hate to see me in pain too. Therefore, by the distributive property, she would also hate to see her grandcat in pain too. So I called her a modest thirty-seven times. No answer. I started to freak out. She knows how fragile I am and usually puts her phone on standby so she can calm me down (this was at least until I found the fidgit spinner). Lola’s time costs less than my Psychiatrists anyway, so it does save her money (since she has agreed to pay my medical bills until I’m twenty-six). Plus she loves me as much as I love cats. So I call her again and again, but she isn’t as patient with me as I am with cats.
“What is it. I was in the pool,” Lola was less than pleased to be hearing from me.I start to get angry. Here I am, popping Xanax while my fitbit keeps beeping since my heart-rate is like 150 bpm and she is in the fucking pool. Well, I’m sorry mom that you are soaking up the beautiful Florida sunshine while us peasants are in the freezing cold trying to comfort a cat who’s new vagina is not working. My vagina has always worked and since my mom’s vagina like got all stretchy and ripped when she gave birth three times I thought she would understand what Olivia was going through. Apparently not, there’s just no compassion in this world.
Eventually I did what any white girl would do, I took him to a nearby animal hospital (after vigorously checking yelp reviews). I hoped that fellow animal lovers would be more inclined to feel empathy towards Oliver than my soulless mother. And they did, they took care of him and made him feel better (with lots of drugs I’m sure). Only, they didn’t think my joke about him menstruating was funny. Some people have no chill.