As many of you are aware, a couple of months ago I decided to hire a new outside minion.
Jack has performed admirably over the last two months. Menacing squirrel thingies, irritating birds, and generally causing havoc in my yard, while at the same time endearing himself to my resident two leggers. (He plays the "homeless waif" role very well)
In recognition of his performance, I decided that he should be promoted.
I decided that his skills could be better utilized if he were brought into my house. He would bring a new flavor to our chaos casserole. A new scent to our potpourri of panic. A new gear thingy to our machination of mayhem.
So, in an uncharacteristic fit of generosity, I informed the two leggers that I would be cool with them bringing him into my house. But with one caveat:
I required that Jack be taken to the Vet thingy first.
No, I was not particularly worried about his health, or whether he was flea bitten or had some disease like Stillgotsmynutsotitus. (Apparently lots of cats have this, but it is treatable with surgery.) Why was I not worried? Because I knew something the two leggers didn't.
Okay, granted there are SO many things I know that they don't, but this little morsel of knowledge was especially juicy.
If the two leggers had simply taken the time and courtesy to sniff Jack's butt like any civilized being, they would have known what I knew from day one:
Jack was a Jill.
That's right, Jack was a Tom impersonator. For the last two months, the two leggers have been speaking of Jack as the sweet little tomcat that lives on my back deck. Now they are faced with the fact that what they thought was a sweet little juvenile male, is actually a four year old, spayed female that through deception and manipulation, managed to worm her way into their little hearts.
What I wouldn't give to have been in the room when the Vet broke the news. It musta been priceless.
So now Jack is part of my household. I have already informed her of the rules and demonstrated on Tiger Lily the consequences of breaking them.
Ivan of course, is confused. He had taken it for granted that the two leggers were correct in their assumption and had never bothered to give Jack a sniff. I suppose I could have told him, but where's the fun in that?
When Ivan asked me why the two leggers were suddenly calling Jack "Jackie", I informed him that the two leggers had determined that there were too many mancats in the world, and so were taking males to the Vet to have operations that converted them to females.
Somehow, I do not believe that Ivan's next visit to the Vet will go smoothly.