My little first blog: am I even doing this right: what Pat Morita has to do with my cat: the movie: the novel.

Warning: this will contain some seriously personal bullshit that no one cares about. Read at your own risk.

So. Does anyone remember Pat Morita?

This awesome dude

He was an awesome dude, right? In fact, he was so awesome that when we got a cat, a few months after Mr. Morita's death, we decided to name him ''Miyagi'', because screw cliché cat names.

Well, one year ago today, Miyagi died.

That little annoying asshole was the best cat ever. He had exactly three hobbies: sleeping, eating, and bugging the shit out of us to get more food to go back to eating and sleeping.
He was a huge attention whore; often jumping on the computer table to have his little personal look-at-me parade on the keyboard, turning round and round between my face and the screen and thus waving his stinky butt inches from my nose. And he never, ever, ever shut the hell up. Oh my fuck the meowing. It never stopped. He was unbelievably vocal about his needs, he was really not a quiet cat. He would sometimes just stare, exhaling his every single breath as a call for attention. Meowing loudly was his way of breathing.
And he was smart in a special, very stupid way. The thing is, we decided he was getting too fat, so we started feeding him less, and at fixed intervals: one meal in the morning and that's all. We did this for years, hoping that he would eventually learn that he wouldn't get food at any other time of day and he should stop asking for it 24/7. He didn't. What he learned, though, was that since I'm usually the first one up in the house, me waking up meant food for him. So I had to keep my door closed at night, lest he come and bother me in the middle of the night for his goddamned food. The first thing I would hear in the morning was him scratching at my door and meowing loudly, because he learned to associate the end of my snores with the fact that I was awake, and thus food. Stupid jerk.
Funny story: the woman who gave him to us had two cats: Miyagi's mother and her ''mate'', the one cat who would usually make her pregnant. The funny thing is, when Miyagi was born, he and his litter looked nothing like the ''dad'', and said dad loathed them on sight. The leading theory is that the little whore had an affair with an alley cat or something, and that the would-be dad knew these kittens just weren't his. So Miyagi was literaly a little bastard.
God I loved that little prick so much.

One day we noticed he hadn't eaten his food. Food being his favorite actvity, we thought it was weird. ''Meh,'' we said, '' he's probably a little sick. He'll get over it in a few days.''
After two whole days of not eating and generally being super lethargic, we called bullshit and brought him to a vet. The guy told us he had a low red blood cell count and some kidney problems, and gave us some medication for the little bastard.
He got better for a while: he started eating again, got more lively, and returned to his usual douchey self.
Then, a week or so after his meds ran out and we thought he had recovered, the hunger strike started again.
It was the same symptoms, the same problems all over again. Nothing was fixed.
So we brought him to another, better vet to try to figure out what was wrong. She kept him overnight, running some tests.
So it turns out it was some sort of unidentified cancer, probably of the bone marrow, which had basically stopped his production of red blood cells, leading to kidney failure, dizzyness, and all that other bad stuff. She said she could run more tests to identify exactly what kind of cancer, but also that it wouldn't really matter; he was unlikely to ever get better. There were about two vets in the whole province who could have chemo'd him, but it would have cost over three thousand bucks and would only have prolonged his life by two or three miserable, constantly-medicated years.
And well, I'm insanely stupid, not stupidly insane. We decided it was better to just end his suffering. We had him euthanized.
I decided to stay there for the injections. I don't know why. I wanted to be there for him, I guess? He, being an extremely sick cat, obviously didn't give a flying fuck about me that day, but I stayed anyway.

So it's been a whole year now, and I decided to honor him with the extremely insignificant act of dedicating my first blog post to him, on a website about pony fanfictions. It's better than nothing, I guess.

I still miss that fat, little, annoying, stinky-assed, insufferable, stupid, flea-ridden, entitled bastard prick.

Best cat ever.