Taylor is a weird cat. Always has been. He’s strangely anti-social, but then will hang out in a room and stare at everyone. He likes to eat carpeting, wool, and thick blanketing. He doesn’t like to eat food if someone’s watching him. He waits until everyone goes to bed before settling into his bowl. I’m used to all of this as part of Taylor’s weird way of life.

But he’s started licking his “elbows,” for lack of a better word, to the point that he’s causing sores, and the fur has rubbed away. I took him to the vet, who diagnosed him with OCD.

This was the day before the honeymoon, so poor Dan had to follow Taylor around and spray bad-tasting stuff on Taylor’s elbows a few times a day, and even attempt to wash The Cat Who Hates To Be Touched.

The vet had suggested I put the cat on Prozac. I do not want to zonk my kitty, because I refuse to let Taylor move to Los Angeles and develop a drug habit, like so many cats do on these mean streets. So I administered my own Wonder Killer home remedy: I’m loading him up on catnip. Once a night I pour some ‘nip near their favorite scratching box, and the three cats have a weed orgy and love me and you and love love and life and oh! isn’t everything just divine?

Taylor’s arms were starting to heal. In fact one arm has almost no scab at all. Then today I see he’s opened up an old scab on the other side. So he’ll let one arm heal and then mess up the other and switch off.

Now. I do not want to buy this book because I refuse to help the man who created that title. And Cal keeps Taylor playing all day long. As do I. He chases around the red dot of his favorite laser pointer toy and sits with us during the day and sleeps with us at night. In fact, his personality hasn’t changed in the slightest. It’s just that now Taylor’s licking for long periods of time.

There he goes again, licking another paw. Sometimes he’ll get bored and go lick Cal on the head for a little while. Taylor is named Taylor because his previous owner found him in a dumpster in Taylor, Texas. He’s gone through several moves, including a plane ride across the country. He’s lived through Feline Leukemia, watched his first friend die right in front of him, and continually puts up with the Dumb and Dumber that is Olive and Cal. Why would he now start licking the fur off his arms? They don’t hurt, as you can touch them and he doesn’t flinch, and he still swats at us with the same amount of Mike Tyson-like power. He’s eating and sleeping and doing all of his normal things.

He’s already got acne on his chin, and he binge eats. And now with his secret cutting, we’re worried that Taylor’s hit the sad part of puberty. Soon he’ll lock himself up in the bedroom and update his LiveJournal all night long and won’t want to hang out with us anymore because we’re so stupid and lame and we totally won’t let him stay up all night at Julie’s party, just because there are going to be boys there. Gah.

The vet rubbed Taylor’s head and said, “There’s nothing wrong with Taylor. He’s healthy. He’s just not very happy right now. He doesn’t like something about how he’s living. You just figure out WHAT YOU’VE DONE WRONG TO FUCK UP YOUR CAT WITH YOUR SELFISH, SELFISH LIFE. WHY DON’T YOU GO OUT OF TOWN AGAIN, PAM? WHY DON’T YOU RUN OFF TO ASPEN FOR A WEEK? THAT’LL MAKE TAYLOR FEEL REALLY LOVED AND WANTED. WHY NOT INVITE THIRTY-SEVEN PEOPLE OVER TO YOUR HOUSE OR FILL IT WITH BOXES SO TAYLOR ALWAYS THINKS HE’S ABOUT TO MOVE? OH, THAT’S WHAT YOU’VE BEEN DOING SINCE YOU MOVED A FEW MONTHS AGO? WELL, THEN, I DON’T KNOW WHY TAYLOR WOULD BE ACTING FUNNY. SEEMS LIKE YOU’RE BEING THE PERFECT PARENT.”

Or maybe that’s just what I heard.

Taylor hates rain and it’s been raining all day, so maybe that’s why he’s gone back to the secret cutting. It was raining constantly the two weeks when his arms got really bad (including when Dan was watching him), so maybe once this bad weather passes he can go back to growing fur. Other than that I just keep petting him, which he really hates but also loves, because he hates how much he loves us.