Norman

A few years ago I had a roommate named Jackie. Jackie was funny, sweet, caring and like myself, loved to drink at all hours of the day. Jackie had a life partner named Norman and since they were companions for the long haul, Norman lived with us as well. Norman was her cat.

Norman was the complete anthesis of Jackie. While Jackie was affable and down to Earth, Norman was arrogant and conceited. He spent the majority of his time under Jackie’s bed in lieu of hanging out with the rest of us in the living room. When I say the rest of us I’m referring to Jackie and myself as well as two dogs that I was sitting long-term. 

On the rare occasion that Norman would grace us with his presence he’d demand that he was the center of attention. Anything else that was taking place upon his arrival became trivial and unimportant.

Norman would make his entrance by parading to the front of the room for all of us to see as if he were some runway super model. Once he had our attention he’d fall on his back so he could explicitly show off his balls.

He’s very proud of his undercarriage. Jackie would beam like a boastful mother.

When he was through exposing his genitalia to us he’d hop up and prance over to one of the dogs that were silently gawking at him. He’d wait a second for dramatic purposes and then smack the dog in its face with his paw as if the dog were some deranged pervert for watching him and then turn and sashay out of the room whilst the dog shivered in shame and fear.  

I have no doubt that when Norman passes over the Rainbow Bridge and is reincarnated that he’ll come back as Naomi Campbell in his next lives.

At first I wasn’t sure why Norman was as cunty as he was but the longer I lived with him the more tell-tail signs I saw which not only explained his abhorrent behavior, but also illustrated why he thought he was in fact THE cat’s meow.

For starters, Norman was a model cat. I don’t mean this in the way that he was an outstanding member of the feline society, but as in he modeled for print ads. In addition to that, Jackie had him certified as a service animal. Even though Norman was only interested in being of service to his own self-fulfilling needs, he was allowed to go anywhere Jackie went on the pretense that he was aiding in her health.  Long standing pet rules in public places simply did not apply to Norman, the certification badge he’d dangle around his neck was tantamount to an all-access backstage pass.

Scruffy dog tied up outside the grocery store?

Norman would look down on him with disdain as he brazenly entered the establishment as if to say “You should be me, but you can’t be because I already am, Slumdog.”

If all that wasn’t enough, Norman also received mail (addressed to him) regularly from Jackie’s family and friends. There’d be letters sent, postcards and coupons for Petsmart and other pet stores. This cat received more letters of love, adoration and discounts than I ever did in my adult life.  

So it’s no wonder Norman thought so high of himself and so contemptuously about the rest of the world, unfortunately, Jackie included.

Jackie would spend countless hours and dollars on Norman. Grooming, food, toys, etc. Norman would show his appreciation to her by shitting in her bed at least once a day. But as all abusive relationships go, Jackie would take it and keep coming back for more. Even though it was obvious that Norman needed Jackie to survive, like any excellent manipulator, Norman had convinced Jackie it was the other way around.

When Norman finally got tired of shitting on Jackie’s bed he turned his attention to my beloved couch which was the pinnacle of my adulting career. In one afternoon he’d pissed on it so much that it altered the chemical make-up of it forever. Never mind that his litter box was literally 2 feet away from the couch. When he and the couch were finished Jackie apologized profusely and immediately went online to find me a replacement. As she searched frantically she admonished Norman who was still standing on top of my defiled sofa like a victorious conquistador. Norman looked at her and then spun on his heels and raised his tail so Jackie could see the most intimate parts of his asshole (or is it cathole?).

Aside from being an entitled diva with a flair for the dramatic and a penchant for defecating and urinating on furniture that he had not paid for, Norman also had an affinity for Munchausen syndrome.  Like most sociopaths that feign things for attention, Norman loved to act like he was sick so Jackie would fawn and worry over him more than she already did on the regular. It seemed like every other week Jackie was taking him to the Vet because “he wasn’t acting like himself.”

Like all toxic partnerships that aren’t rectified, one night Norman’s nefarious shenanigans were taken too far and as always, Jackie came out on the losing end.

As mentioned earlier, Jackie and I enjoyed the drink. After an evening of boozing in our living room on our new faux leather sofa that was stain and scent resilient and watching enough reality T.V. to permanently lower our I.Q.’s, I went to bed and passed out. I awoke several hours later to my phone ringing. I didn’t recognize the number and almost didn’t answer but you know what they say about curiosity (empty threats to the dismay of some, namely me).

Hello?

Is this Chris? An authoritative male’s voice wanted to know.

Yeah.

This is Officer Larson of the LAPD. Do you have a roommate named Jackie?

I do.

Jackie is being held on suspicion of driving under the influence and we were wondering if you could come here and meet us.

Uh, why?

Glad you asked. She needs someone to pick up her cat.

Her cat is with her? Norman?

You are correct. We have reason to believe she was driving drunk with Norman. While driving with your cat isn’t against the law, driving drunk is, with or without your cat. Jackie asked us to call you to see if you could come pick him up before we take her to the station. If you can’t, Norman goes to jail too.

With Jackie?

No. The pound. Kitty jail. And it’ll cost her money to get him out. Between you and me, that’s money she’s not going to have. So are you able to help out your friend?

Sorry, Chris. Jackie said in the background.

Yeah, I’ll be there in a second.

Thanks. We’re at the southeast corner of Tujunga and Moorpark. See you soon.

I got dressed and drove in a stupor to the intersection Jackie was being detained at. Most of that stupor was due to me not understanding what had happened. Driving drunk around town with your cat on a Monday night? Who does that? But then this was Norman we were talking about. For all I knew he had demanded Jackie go out and get more tequila for margaritas while he rode shotgun and got control of the stereo. Seriously, anything was possible with this guy.

When I arrived at the location I found Jackie. She was nonchalantly leaning up against a cop car, joking around with the arresting officer. If the marked car and uniform were absent, you’d think it was just a couple of friends loitering around after the bar had closed.

I didn’t know what I expected but it surely wasn’t this scene. Maybe I thought Jackie should’ve been more shook up. Maybe I thought she should’ve been kneeling at the feet of the officer, begging him to forgive her for joy riding with a cat and an open container, swearing that she’d learned her lesson and that it would never happen again.

But then maybe I was just projecting how I’d be dealing with the situation if the slipper were on the other foot. Which by the way, was what Jackie was wearing; slippers, and the rest of her bedtime attire. The shit just kept getting more and more bizarre exponentially.

I was instructed by the officer to bring Norman’s kitty crate. I opened my trunk and brought out his majesty’s litter, while I, his humble servant, would be carrying him back to his kingdom. This was the point that I realized I had become fully immersed as a key player in the noxious, offensive liaison between Norman and Jackie. I was not ecstatic about my inclusion into this Bermuda Triangle of sorts.

As I got closer Jackie looked over at me with a smile.

Not one of my prouder moments. She said “aww shucks” like.

Are you Chris? The officer asked.

That’s me.

Thanks for coming.

Sure. Can I ask a question?

Of course.

What the fuck happened?

I’ll let Jackie explain, but it has to be quick. We have to take her to the station to do an official test on her.

I’m so sorry to do this to you, Chris. After you went to bed I stayed up a little while longer. She winked.

This was code for “I kept drinking”.

After I got dressed for bed Norman started acting like he couldn’t breathe. So I took him to a 24hr animal hospital but they didn’t have a vet on duty. They suggested I go to my regular vet in the morning. I left there so distraught and then…well…this. Let me get Norman for you.

She reached into her car and brought out King Tutankhamun. He looked at me before he strode into his crate as if to say “These flowers have wilted and I’m over their company. Homeward, manservant.”

Can I ask one more favor of you, Chris? Jackie asked.

Why not.

Can you please take him to his regular vet tomorrow morning at 6 am? I’m so very worried about him.

I stood there for a second, in my own pajamas, holding a cat, in a crate, looking at my roommate in her pajamas, in the custody of a cop, getting ready to be taken to jail.

Suuuuuuuure. I said exhaustedly. There was no point in thinking I’d get out of this unscathed. Norman had tired of the usual one-on-one misery dispensing he’d grown accustomed to with Jackie so now he thought it only practical to move on to a ménage a trois.

When will Jackie be out? I asked.

She’ll have to wait to see a judge after 8 am tomorrow, after that she can post bail. She’ll be back home, reunited with Norman by tomorrow afternoon.

This sounded like so many other stories you hear about police intervening on a domestic disturbance only to leave the victim in the company of the perpetrator so the abuse can continue. It was no different with Jackie, within 12 hours she’d be back at the mercy of Norman.

I’ll wait to hear from you tomorrow.

I started to walk towards my car, I could hear the officer instructing Jackie on what was going to happen next.

Ok, Jackie, since you’re going to be in back of the car we’re going to have to handcuff you.

I turned and watched as he did this.

Now I’m going to put you in the back of the squad car. The officer narrated.

Wait! Wait! Hold on, hold on! Jackie said as she gave the cop resistance.  

This was the moment that I’d thought would’ve been happening earlier, when she finally realized the severity of what was about to happen. When she came to understand just how costly and disruptive this whole debacle was going to be.

She was going to have to shell out over 6 grand in lawyer’s fees and fines. On top of that she was going to have to attend diversion classes for 8 weeks, do community service AND have a breathalyzer installed in her car that I would have to blow in more times than I’d like to count just so she could get to work some mornings.

What is it, Jackie? The cop asked, worried that she might freak out now.

Chris! She yelled at me.

Yes?

There was a tense moment of silence. Was she going to breakdown and cry? Was she going to become hostile and put her 10 years of jujitsu training to work and possibly cripple this public servant who just wanted to get home and get a blow job? What the fuck was going to happen? It all hinged on her next actions, which were:

Can you take my picture?

We looked at her, stunned, stupefied and wondering if this night could get any more ri-god-damned-diculous. The cop reasoned with her.

Jackie, where we’re going, you’re gonna get a few pictures taken of you.

Aww bummer. She said.

She quietly got into the backseat of the car and they drove off leaving me standing on the street alone with Norman.  

As far as I was concerned he was plutonium that I was handling without protective wear. For all intents and purposes he should’ve just been buried somewhere out in the desert with the rest of the world’s radioactive waste as a safeguard to humanity. But I didn’t have the time nor the shovel to do civilization that kind of favor. So I drove home and let him out in Jackie’s room.

He immediately jumped up on her bed as if he owned it. After a few minutes of promenading around he got settled and looked me straight in the face as he took a massive dump on her newly washed linens.

I should have let you rot in jail, you fucking feline.

When he heard me say this, he purred, as if he'd gotten one over on us all. I shut the door and hoped that at least him being trapped with the smell of his own feces was some sort of punishment. But I was only fooling myself, as far as Norman was concerned, his shit didn't stink.