Forcing Self To Write

I have this notion that writing is good for me. Since starting black trunk a few weeks ago, I've found that posting yields both a cathartic benefit and a boost in personal pride much similar to when I go a whole day at work without dicking around. So tonight, having finished my chores around the house and with the cat pinning my arms to the keyboard, I shall write with no particular topic in mind.

So, let's talk about the cat. If this post ends up good or bad, it's going to be Mr Orange's fault. He is literally strewn across my arms at this very moment. Blood flow to my left hand is in jeopardy. But back to Mr Orange. I rescued the O-man from the local animal shelter four and a half years ago. By the time I got into the cat market, Mr Orange had been at the shelter for several weeks -- well longer than the shelter guarantees to keep animals alive. Mr Orange was, of course, the most bestest cat at the shelter, but he was listed as being eight years old on his information placard. This made him by far the oldest cat at the shelter. Since adopting Mr Orange, I have learned that the shelter's age estimate was total bullshit. Either that or Mr Orange is now the spriest twelve year old on the planet. Okay, maybe I exaggerate, but he is a stud (except for his lack of testicles).


The most often asked question about Mr Orange is "did you name him after Mr Orange from Reservoir Dogs?" Much controversy surrounds this question. The problem was that naming the cat was not a solo endeavor. At the time, I was dating R., then a recent Salt Lake transplant like myself, now a resident of Maine (we'll get to that). In the process of choosing the O-man, several anonymous felines were uncaged and given the once-over in the shelter's pet evaluation room. In order to have meaningful discussion about the candidates, temporary monikers had to be applied.

"Hey, what did you think about Shitfoot?"
"He was kinda crabby. I liked Cheetara better."
"But she bit me. What about Mr Orange?"
"Oh yeah, he's pretty okay."

The trick is that R. applied this particular moniker. In my mind, "Mr Orange" only described his fur color, but for R. it was also a reference to Reservoir Dogs. Thus until very recently, my answer was always "no, he wasn't named after Mr Orange from Reservoir Dogs". It was only because of a strange coincidence that the full story recently came to light. Another ex, L. moved also happened to move to Maine recently. There L. actually encountered R. at which point their lets-trash-pete session inevitably let to them talking about the one-good-thing-about-pete, which of course is Mr Orange. So L. called and clued me in on how I named my cat. So now, the answer is "yes, he's named after that dude from that movie. And stop asking stupid questions."