How Not to Castrate Your Cat…

While MC would not submit to a photo due to the sensitive nature of his proposed operation, Demon was quite willing to have her photo taken. The poised claw suggests we don't mess were her, however.

If you turn white at the thought of castration via the “Old Country” method, do not read this article. It is not supported by the SPCA, nor does the author endorse it…

I grew up in a semi-Italian neighborhood, semi in the sense that half our neighbors were Italian. On the north were the Passerini’s who provided our family with spaghetti, apples and their son Johnny. (See “The Attack of the Graveyard Ghost” under MisAdventures.)

Papa Passerini had another offering, a cheap way to castrate cats.

Over the years we had several cats, two of which were memorable, Demon and MC. Demon was as dark as the night and an expert hunter. One of my jobs was to dispose of the treasures she brought home and left on our doorstep.

MC was pure white. He was a tomcat’s Tom Cat, somewhat diminutive in size, and totally dedicated to scattering his sperm.

Unfortunately, his small size meant that he often came out on the losing end in his battles with larger tomcats over a chosen lady’s favors. He would arrive home beat up and battered. One time a chunk of his ear was missing. Another time it was the tip of his tail.

Pop (my father) decided that drastic measures were called for. MC would have to have to lose his offending appendages. Papa Passerini suggested an Old Country solution.

“All you need is a pair of tin snips, a burlap bag, gloves, a pocket knife and rope,” he suggested.

While MC had never been a paragon of feline domesticity, he was at least partially tame.  He even managed a brief purr when I picked him up the morning of his ‘operation.’

Any previous pretensions of tolerating people ceased instantly when his legs were tied up and he was dumped into the dark gunnysack.

When Pop cut a slit in the burlap with his pocketknife and reached a gloved hand through, he was met by claws of fury. M.C. had shed his ropes faster than Houdini.

No one, but no one, was going to grab him by the testicles and snip them off with tin snips. He clawed his way out of the bag and became a white blur as he disappeared into the Graveyard.

After that we would only see MC at dinner time and then only after we had put his food down and walked several feet away. Can’t say I blame him…

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