Meatball

 I was always a dog person. I grew up with dogs. Dear ol' dad was never a fan of cats. Mom loved all animals. But ours was a dog house. Plain and simple.

My first experience living with a cat was thanks to a roommate. He had a 40-pound lump of feline ferocity named Meatball. When he moved in with his girlfriend, the cat was left behind, due to the girlfriend's alleged allergies. I believe the reality was more like she was allergic to the oversized beast's personality. 

Meatball was just mean. Maybe that's the wrong word. In his defense, he was a foundling. My roomie worked at a pizza joint, and Meatball was found in the alley behind the place...noshing on a discarded meatball. This was the cat's preferred food. 

Aside from his obesity, Meatball had ear mites or something as a kitten. His ears flopped down, not unlike a pig. 

Just imagine a 40-pound cat, with floppy ears, and a bad disposition. Oh, he was mostly white with some black spots. On the rare occasions he wasn't being evil, he could be cute.  

Meatball was fully grown when it moved in. After being left with it, I attempted to civilize it. This didn't work. 

Meatball hated cat food - wet or dry. Meatball had issues with the litter box. After using it, Meatball did his best to empty the contents all over the back hall. 

Meatball lived on a schedule that only he knew or understood. The standard operating procedure was simple. I was not permitted to sleep for more than two hours, in case my opposable thumbs were required for something. 

Meatball's method of waking me was to climb on my chest and whap me in the nose with at least one claw. This was not my preferred method of waking up, so Meatball would often be hurled into the clothes hamper. 

One can probably guess; Meatball would try, try again until I got up. I was exhausted for months. 

I started letting Meatball go outside. I figured either he would run away, get hit by a car, or eaten by a dog. None of this ever happened. He was, however, returned to me one day by the police. 

He had attacked the neighbor's dog, a Schnauzer. I think its name was Duchess. 

I was surprised to hear a knock on my apartment door. I rarely had visitors there. When I opened the door, there stood two officers. One was doing his best to hold Meatball, who was behaving somewhere between dead weight and a ticking time bomb. The other officer explained that I should leave my cat indoors, lest it try to attack the neighbor's dog again. Next time, charges would be filed.

I attempted to explain that Meatball was not my cat. The police didn't care. 

My apartment had been built around the turn of the 19th/20th centuries. Lots of woodwork and two long hallways. Had someone other than a young, broke musician lived there it probably would've been lovely. Instead, I had guitars and amps strewn all over what should have been the dining room. The living room had the Pennsylvania House rocker my mother bought for me when I was a kid, and a ratty old leather settee. And milk crates instead of a TV stand, lamp table, etc. The kitchen would've been nice had it not been for the gas leak (that eventually almost killed me - but that's a totally different story). The bedroom...you can imagine; it was a bed, a dresser, an old clothes hamper and dirty clothes everywhere. 

The bathroom was at the end of the back hall, where Meatball's litter box sat. There was a window above the litter box, which did surprisingly well at odor resolution. The bathroom itself was surprisingly grand for the apartment. It was dated for sure, but it was spacious and relatively easy to keep clean. Coral pink and black tiles surrounded the recessed bathtub/shower. The rest of the bathroom was black and white tiles. 

This was where Meatball almost caused me to have a heart attack.

I was an avid reader back then. I always had a stack of books to go through. Already 2 years old, I was finally getting to Stephen King's Pet Sematary. 

As is often the case with King, the book is infinitely better than the movie. It was around three in the morning, and I was sitting on the toilet deeply engrossed in the section where the cat, Winston Churchill, has come back from the dead. I neither heard nor saw Meatball standing outside the bathroom.

Suddenly, Meatball did his best attempt at a roar (which due to his obesity sounded comical) and overturned his litter box. Luckily, I was sitting on the toilet. He scared the shit out of me. I threw the book at him. Yes, I missed. He just sat there in the doorway, staring at me. He gave another perturbed vocalization and walked away.

I knew I had to find a new home for him. I couldn't live with that creature. We just didn't understand each other. 

A friend kindly took him in a few weeks later. From what I understand, he acclimated well to his new home. His behavior didn't change, nor did his dietary preferences. He was simply more appreciated at his new home. 

Don't get me wrong. I liked the cat. He occasionally seemed to like me. We just didn't understand each other. I doubt this was a new experience for either of us. 

40 years later, I still think about him, fondly. Had our paths crossed at a different point in time, maybe things would have been different. Maybe we met at the right time. It couldn't have been all that bad. Here I am in 2026 writing about him all these years later. 

I ended up moving out of the apartment due to the gas leak. I took a smaller, less interesting apartment in a different part of town. The new place was interesting in that I shared a balcony with a lovely young nurse who enjoyed sunbathing...and the building had a greenhouse. The landlord was thrilled that I was always growing something in there. I don't think he knew I was trying to crossbreed sunflowers with Venus flytraps...but again, a story for another time. 

To the best of my knowledge, Meatball never succeeded in killing the neighbor's Schnauzer, or any other dogs. I can't say this for certain though. Meatball was never one to let things go. He could, and often did, hold a grudge. 

copyright notice © 2026 Michael C. Metzger