Kitty Kebab--meow

Joose is a caffeinated malt beverage available throughout the United States. It’s available in a variety of flavours, from orange to raspberry lemonade, to the more exotic mamba and panther. No matter which one you choose they all taste a bit like battery acid and C Plus. All that matters is that it’s available at convenience stores across New York for 2 bucks, and it’s 12%. For a Canadian, this is a sensational deal. I was enjoying a Fruit Punch Joose on a sunny Buffalo afternoon while Jenicka settled for the more traditional and patriotic Molson Canadian. It’s probably not a good idea to drink more than one Joose in a day, and the safety in drinking one is debatable, but they were cheap and we came here to party—our favourite band USS would be playing the Town Ballroom that evening. We had forgotten to exchange our money—the rainbow hued currency of our motherland would do nothing for the merchants of this strange new world—but we weren’t too bright, and found ourselves walking around some random ass industrial area looking for a bank that was open. Everything was closed early and there were no banks. After a lot of aimless wandering and the trip to the mall, we were ready to go, and decided to eschew expensive cabs for a walk to the venue. A little grey kitten appears, the kind hang-in-there-kitty posters are made of. Ignoring fears of rabies, Jenicka picks him up—one of those things that makes sense when you’re a few drinks into the day. She holds our new friend in one hand and her beer in the other as we jauntily parade down the street. Smart travelers plan their routes in advance, but we just had a crumpled google maps printout to guide us through the jungles (and ghettoes) of Buffalo. We’ve only had our cat for a few minutes but we already decide on a name—Kitty Kebab, after Human Kebab, the spastic DJ of USS. We decide we will feed it. Those maternal instincts a kitty and alcohol can bring out. We head off in search of a convenience store. A teenage girl sees me drinking from her porch.
“Girl, is you sippin’ on that Joose!?”
“Heeeellll yeah!” I say, truly the rock star pinnacle of my existence.
We continue walking, Jenicka and I swap, map for kitty. I hold the feline Kebab close to my heart. We are approached by a young black girl, maybe 10 or 11, cute as heck but no competition for our kitty.
“Hey, where’dja get that cat?”
“That’s my cat…but you can have him, ‘cuz he’s mean!”
We are offended at the suggestion…Kebab, mean?
“This is the nicest cat we’ve ever met!” we slur, thanking her for this gift and walking on.
We take a cab to the nearest convenience store, a decision that made sense at the time. With our drinks and cat still in our hands, we enter and pick up a four pack of 9 Lives seafood platter. Taking care of the little critter strikes me with a feeling of responsibility and pride, like a drunken mother. As soon as we exit the store I burst open the packaging and extract a tin, peeling it open, turning up my nose a little at the scent, and place it in front of the little guy. He eats as if he never had before. It’s almost time to head to the venue, but most concerts do not let you bring in kitties, no matter how cute they are, no matter if they have little scars on their foreheads and big sad eyes, no matter what. No kitties. They check at the door. So what could we do? We burst open the rest of the cans and scatter them around. We get in a cab and tearfully kiss and hug our kitty goodbye. When we returned later that evening, one can was empty, the other had a few nibbles, and the other two hadn’t been touched. We looked for him—screaming the name we’d recently baptized him with. He was nowhere to be found. One day we’ll go back there, we’ll find our kitty kebab. Except by that time he’ll probably just be a Cat Kebab.