Catz: A Story about Troika, Whiskey and Poopski

by Roxane Hudon

So, I was lying on my bed complaining to my roommate about how I was sick of everything and she says: “Well, why don’t you write something?” To which I replied, “I can’t, I don’t care about anything!” How dramatic. I’m just tired of writing cover letters, applying for jobs,  watching Jersey Shore and drinking…it makes you pretty jaded about everything. C’est la vie ou quelque chose? But, of course, it’s not true that I don’t care about anything, because I clearly care about my cats. So, here’s a text about my freakin’ cats:

Chapter 1: Troika

I was living in this tiny apartment in the stupid Mile End. When I opened my fridge door, it would block access to the “kitchen” (which was more like a cupboard). The neighbours would always call the cops when I played T.I unreasonably loud at any time of the day. I could watch people play basketball at the YMCA from my window. It was an unsavoury place to live, really, so the only logical next step was to get a cat. I went to the SPCA and saw this adorable kitten. Energetic and playful. I immediately fell in love. Unfortunately, so did a fat bald gay man with a purse who “saw it first”. I continued to look at the other cats. I felt cheated and sad. And then I saw “Coolla”. She was just sitting there. I tried to pet her and she crawled to the back of her cage in fear. I immediately fell in love and decided to test her out in the petting room. Yes, you do that at the SPCA. You can try on a cat like a pair of pants. “Coolla” was obviously scared out of her mind, so I decided the only logical next step was to bring her home to mommy. The first step was to rename her. “Coolla”? I come from a family of animal lovers, but they’re all dog lovers. I’m the black sheep…or black cat……………………………………………………….BAM. My first dog was a Golden Retriever named Tucker. We loved Tucker. Tucker was a good dog. He lived until the age of 13 and when he died, we decided as a family that all our animals would have T names to honour Tucker. Enter Tango, Trixie, Tommy, Tobi, Tara and now, I would continue this Hudon tradition and mix it with my own personal fascination with anything Russian (Fabergé Eggs!…expensive luxurious eggs!) and name my cat Troika. Troika wouldn’t leave her litter box when we brought her home. She would sleep in it. After the first night, I thought she jumped out of the window, but no! she was just under the desk. Fiou! I like to pretend Troika came here from Russia. Her past owner was a Siberian fisherman who decided to bring her on a fishing trip. Unfortunately, a giant wave sucked him into the sea, leaving poor Troika alone on the boat, alone with a bottle of vodka. When the boat landed on the Northern shore of Quebec, they found her with the vodka, totally drunk. “Les Ostis d’Russes!” Now Troika is here. She sleeps in my bed and we’re very happy. Once, in my Photojournalism class, I photoshopped her in Moscow, imagining her being happy back in her motherland. My teacher looked over my shoulder and asked: “Roxane, are you doing something you’re not supposed to be doing? Aren’t you supposed to be working on your project?” To which I replied, “You’re a journalist fascist,” which, of course, is almost a true story.

Chapter 2: Whiskey

I live in a big place ( don’t ask me the mathematics of it) in Little Italy with 3 lovely roommates. Of course, they weren’t always completely lovely. An older man once lived here. He tested things on a big TV and then left us. We found Malcolm to replace him on the Internet, where I find most things. He was funny and liked cheesy hip hop. We knew he’d fit right in. And, of course, he had told us via e-mail that he also had a cat. A cat cow, he said. The cat cow’s name was Whiskey. Whiskey was slim and liked to play. She tried to eat Troika’s food. Troika hissed. I supported all of this. Whiskey ate more food and got a bit of a belly and learned to calm down like normal people. Now, she just lies there with Troika. Sometimes they get up, but it looks challenging and every time, I’m a little impressed and envious, because, of course, I’m just lying there with them. At first, I thought Whiskey didn’t love me and wanted nothing to do with me. But since I’ve started feeding her, she purrs in my direction and looks at me. We enjoy each other’s company. Malcolm gets jealous of this. He’s a bit of a possessive wife when it comes to his cat. When he comes home drunk at 4 a.m., I can hear him pining for her: “Whiiiiiskeyyy, Whiiiiiiskeyyy” It wakes me up, but I usually go back to sleep and make fun of him in the morning.

Chapter 3: Poopski
Poopski is the latest addition to our 252 St-Zot. This pretty ballerina moved in here in August and brought with her a little stinky kitten that she has (still) not named. She told us that his name may be Dante, but that she often calls him Cat. Since Malcolm and I’s cats both have booze names, we decided we should rename him behind her back…something like..Patron. So, we called him Patron. But since he has stinky orange poo, we decided Poopski was a much better name. Poopski is always playing and attacking printers. He sometimes stops to affectionately lick Troika and then bite her. Troika runs away. When his owner is there, we pretend we call him “Little One,” but really, we’re calling him Poopski. He does things like hide in the cupboards and attack your legs while you wash your dishes. Life is full of excitement in this apartment.

Epilogue
So, that was the story of my three cats. I like talking about them, but supposedly, if you’re not a cat person, you don’t give a shit about people’s cat stories. That’s too bad for you, because this was clearly a story full of joy and hope for the future. I send a photo via text of my cats to my good friend MATT BAIN ( say hi to him on the streets) every day. He enjoys it, I’m sure. Do you want a photo of my cats every day? Let me know, the future is your oyster and the world is your lemon. Sometimes, when I’m tired of looking at job applications and my bank account, I lie in my bed and Troika lies next to me, Poopski lies on the other side and Whiskey licks my head and all is made good in the world. Live long and prosper.
The end.