Cat Daddy: What the World's Most Incorrigible Cat Taught Me About Life, Love, and Coming Cl ean
Jackson Galaxy, Joel Derfner
Cat behaviorist and star of Animal Planet's hit television show My Cat from Hell, Jackson Galaxy, a.k.a. "Cat Daddy," isn't what you might expect for a cat expert (as The New York Times noted, with his goatee and tattoos, he "looks like a Hells Angel"). Yet Galaxy's ability to connect with even the most troubled felines -- not to mention the stressed-out humans living in their wake -- is awe-inspiring. In this book, Galaxy tells the poignant story of his thirteen-year relationship with a petite gray-and-white short-haired cat named Benny, and gives singular advice for living with, caring for, and loving the feline in your home.
When Benny arrived in his life, Galaxy was a down-and-out rock musician with not too much more going on than a part-time job at an animal shelter and a drug problem. Benny's previous owner brought the cat to the shelter in a cardboard box to give him up. Benny had seen better days --- his pelvis had just been shattered by the wheels of a car -- and his owner insisted he'd been "unbondable" from day one. Nothing could have been further from the truth. An inspiring account of two broken beings who fixed each other, Cat Daddy is laced throughout with Galaxy's amazing "Cat Mojo" advice for understanding what cats need most from us humans in order to live happier, healthier lives.
institutional. “We wouldn’t urge you to foster if we didn’t put our money where our mouths were. Everybody on this staff has fostered.” I noticed a few random pencils in the ceiling, and the cartoon pleas for children to learn the classics (we rented space in the public library for these gatherings). “Bridgette, the shelter manager, has fostered; Sarah, our volunteer coordinator, whom you’ve all talked to, has fostered; Jackson, our outreach coordinator, has…” No no no no no no no no no!
to process what I had seen, I knew one thing; I had to learn to sense when Benny was getting overstimulated, and once I knew what filled the balloon, I had to let the air out of it before it burst. I had to train both him and myself. He was teaching me the deeper nature of himself and I owed it to him to do the thing that came hardest to me—listen. I had to also completely redefine the nature of overstimulation; it wasn’t just a petting-induced by-product of the full-body over-stroke, what you
his ass crack on the other. But he sold ice to the Eskimos. He convinced girls that he was Valentino; Christ, he convinced me that he was a musician. The core of his brilliance, like the best con men, was unshakable confidence and skills of manipulation. He was an absolutely astonishing liar. I’ve never met—and I hope never to meet again—anyone else who could flat-out lie, eyeball to eyeball, like him. It was amazing, except I thought somehow I was immune to it. I guess so did everyone else. In
other, kissing teeth or chin, laughing awkwardly but not self-consciously. The point of the black hole we created was to lose all sense of self while with another person so you didn’t feel like crying in the middle of it. If I could have woken up just for a minute, I probably would have recognized that here was the point when “partying” became a collection of desperate measures, like trying to bail out a sinking boat with a jelly jar. But I didn’t wake up; I relied on the universe to take care
here, paid you the money I needed for rent, and you’re saying that all you can do is hold a piece of tissue in front of his face, say ‘hmmm—see, breathing compromised a bit,’ and send me on my way?” We have to towel him twice a day, to give him antibiotics, bronchial dilators, steroids, appetite stimulants, painkillers, and fucking children’s nose drops. And what hurts most of all from this is that I’m buying into this fucking mockery. I’m trying to pill the hurt away instead of actually