Three Years of the 10-Kilo Lint-Covered Breast Implant
And so we start Year Four. Three years ago today, I had a successful carnivorous plant gallery, a delightfully weird house, and no cat. In fact, I was reasonably comfortable that for the first time in 35 years, I had no significant feline presence in my life. If I needed a cat, I thought, one would present itself, right?
From my lips to the Cat Distribution System‘s ears.
In the subsequent 1096 days since the lump of brown-grey terror hitched itself to me, things have changed a lot. The gallery is gone, shut down four months later, and at an absolutely perfect time. The house went back to its owner, but also at an absolutely perfect time, and the new house needed a cat without either of us realizing it.
And oh, yes, I have a cat.
The last nearly eight months haven’t been perfect for Parker. However, if he can’t go outside without restriction, at least he’s learned to weaponize the harness and lead knows he has to wear if he’s going to prowl through the back yard, with my being tied to chairs and treetrunks when he decides he’s done. He’s learned that if I won’t get up early in the morning (trust me to get a cat that expects me to awaken right at sunrise, especially on the weekends), he can stomp around Sarah and I’ll get up just to keep him from stomping on her kidneys. He has a perfect Sherlock Holmes/Professor Moriarty relationship with the free-roaming BlackCat, even if we’re trying to figure out which is which. And with the current explosion of writing projects, he taught the both of us to turn on the television while we’re working so he can get his daily fix of The Walking Dead: he apparently sees a lot of himself in Daryl Dixon, and I’m just glad he doesn’t have the thumbs to operate a crossbow.
So what does the rest of 2025 have in store for Parker? Well, after last summer’s emergency kitchen restoration (a long kitchen plumbing leak that was only visible from under the house, only discovered upon repairing a soft spot in the living room floor), he now has full access to everything in the house he needs to access, including the garage. Naturally, this means he only wants to go outside that, and he’s determined to see the rest of the neighborhood. (Last night, an ambulance and fire truck stopped out front of a neighbor’s house, and Parker nearly pulled my arm out of its socket trying to get over there for a rubbernecking session.) In addition, half of the trees in the neighborhood are pecan trees, meaning that the resident squirrels are doing their utmost to overcome their natural ADHD to cache pecans before temperatures start dropping. Parker has no intention of actually catching one of HIS squirrels, but chasing treerats all over the neighborhood is perfectly acceptable, just to get them to scream from a tree branch just out of range so he can scream back. He has a remarkably good life, to the point where it may be time for him to get a job just so he can suffer like the rest of us.
As for the rest of 2025 and 2026? We have ideas. He has ideas. The question is who in this house has the superior willpower.
Want to get caught up on the St. Remedius story so far? Check out the main archive. Want more hints as to the history of St. Remedius Medical College? Check out Backstories and Fragments. Want to forget all of that and look at cat pictures from a beast who dreams of his own OnlyFans for his birthday? Check out Mandatory Parker. Questions, concerns, and disgust over generative AI? Check out Contact, Privacy Policy, and AI Policy. And feel free to visit the St. Remedius Medical College Redbubble shop for all of your Mandatory Parker needs.
Discover more from The Annals of St. Remedius Medical College
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.