Matilda’s knew the birthday of her daddy, mommy, two younger brothers, best friend Shannon, and of course, dear Miss Kitty (which wasn’t her official birthday, but the day she scurried into the Kornbluth family’s love-filled shrieks-of-joy laden home).
Matilda was the sole pushing force who campaigned to get a cat from a rescue center in nearby Carmel because she felt a mystical connection to these graceful, courteous, endearing, clean, fuss-free felines of all stripes and colors, but no other one got under her love-laced skin more than Miss Kitty.
Originally, Matilda named her Woodstock, because she was discovered on Woodstock Street, yet she thought Bob Dylan was annoying and overrated and couldn’t respect the alleged evolved, arc of justice leaning solely toward smug, secure, pretentious baby boomers, so the moment the name Miss Kitty was uttered by her dear dada, it stuck for good.
Now, Matilda’s dad never grew up with a cat or dog because his father’s line of reasoning when addressing his two growing sons was, “I work. So does your father. So, who’s going to take the dog for a shit outside the house? You two?” Understand: the rationale uttered in immediate dismissive, you’re-fucking-crazy disgust was predicated on the assumption of Matilda’s grandpa’s contention that no amount of pet responsibility would make his two sons any less lazy pieces of shit than they were already, in his eyes, regardless if he had been wearing glasses almost out of the womb.
Matilda’s Dad never got bit by KUJO, so he was never petrified by dogs, although he thought the incessant, barky, big muscular, bony ones were gross monstrosities who bared too much gummy teeth and shitty bad breath, for his taste. Golden retrievers were nice, Matilda’s dad thought, but their alleged personalities were vastly overrated, in his book. Saying a golden retriever has good personality is like saying that Chelsea Clinton has a good personality. But, it’s sexist to make fun of Chelsea Clinton. But she’s not even ugly, anymore.
Plus, mostly on both sides of the divide, I think Alyssa Milano is an uppity, divisive twat on Twitter, too.
Matilda’s dad had a best friend, Coopy, growing up, who had two smoking hot blonde au pairs who could walk his two adorable miniature white dogs, Justie and Brandy. Brandy was the portlier of the two, yet they were snuggly cute even when they smelled like aged pee nappies.
Those dogs were impossible not to love, which is the same way Matilda’s dad felt about their precious, otherworldly, head-rubbing, grazing Miss Kitty, who was his new official 5 a.m. alarm clocks, these days, gently nudging her Do It All Dad’s head before it got up by itself naturally, without any feline nudgy interference.
According to Matilda’s Dad, nothing screams, ‘I don’t suffer from separation anxiety from my grandkids’ when his in-laws decide (in three-plus hours away Delaware) to adopt a miniature Doberman pinscher (a disgusting breed of English hunting dogs) named Heidi, three grandchildren later.
Matilda didn’t like Heidi one bit. She chewed through muzzles with a dogged persistence on par with a Nazi officer trying to chew through a ball gag while playing the gimpy bitch from Pulp Fiction with Hitler, whenever his herpes sores flared up his desire to annihilate.
One time, Matilda’s English-born Mother-in-law broached the boring subject of how great the Christmas market is in Manchester, only for her Dad to have fun at her expense, saying, “Then, you should have Jida fly us all out there for Christmas one year to visit all the relatives, so they don’t think you’re hiding our Jewish offspring with them.”
Baba Grandam says, “But if we left for Manchester, we’d have to quarantine the dog for three weeks.”
At that point, Matilda’s dad says, “Well, we wouldn’t want to separate you from your Anchor Baby.”
Now it’s October 26, 2020, time for Miss Kitty’s three-year birthday bash; and her dad always says, “The best things happen in threes,” mostly referring the comedic rule of three in addition to the birth of their baby brother Samuel Chosen Curls Was Bound To Woo (although four kids would really piss both virtual Facebook-involved-only grandparents off the most. Lifting a finger to them is liking a new picture on Facebook). After Matilda’s mommy posted a picture on Instagram to show all the new gifts and party celebrations in the house for Miss Kitty’s birthday, her parents decide to visit from Delaware for a surprise visit with Heidi because doggy daycare isn’t available on the weekends (which pissed off Matilda’s dad even more so, knowing they’ve spent more on daycare for Horrendous Heidi than they did on daycare or for any enrichment activities, including camp, for all three of their grandchildren, so far).
Matilda spots her grandparents’ lower-priced model Range Rover pulling into their driveway, and doesn’t understand why Baba and Jida are here on Miss Kitty’s birthday. Matilda rushes downstairs to greet them at the door and says, “Hey, Baba and Jida. What are you doing here?”
Baba says, “We’re here to celebrate Miss Kitty’s birthday, and we brought someone else with to spice up the party.” Then Jida escorts the dog Heidi out of the Range Rover, which starts barking uncontrollably, immediately.
Matilda says, “Hey … Heidi, did you bite through your last muzzle again?”
Jida says, “We ran out of muzzles. She bit through her last one on the car ride down.”
Matilda says, “Yeah, the ride from Delaware is a schlep. I totally get it.”
Baba Grandma notices the mezuzah on the door for the first time and asks, “What’s that, Tilly?”
Matilda says, “It’s a mezuzah. It has the schema prayer inside—the real biggie prayer in synagogue that you cite before the open and close the ark; that being, ‘Hear, O Israel, the Lord (is) our God, the Lord is One’. No Jesus name drops in that prayer, sorry.”
Baba says, “Aren’t you going to invite us in?” Matilda says, “Yeah, I already made Miss Kitty’s party rule: no dogs allowed. We do live in horse country here in North Salem, and I hate dogs because they eat dog food made of dead horse parts. Sorry.”
Baba Grandma presses, “Don’t be ridiculous. We came all the way down to Delaware to join the party.”
Matilda says, “The invitation, which I don’t recall Mama sending you because I’m spying on her through her phone all the time already, explicitly said, ‘No dogs allowed on Miss Kitty’s Day. If you bring them, there will be hell to pay.’ Even though Jews don’t believe in hell, but you get the gist.
“Look, I’ll make you a deal. Have Jida buy a Washington Post or a NY Times (they all stink), and let Heidi run around the yard and make shit piles on more op-eds from BDS activists about Palestinian terrorist leaders in charge, resisting free vaccines for their people from the dirty, greedy neighboring Jews (even from the Arab-Israeli ones with less imposing schnozes) while we celebrate Miss Kitty’s birthday inside.
She’s my Daddy’s new good luck charm. I can feel it. His next two books, Waste Of Height and The Koshertarian Comedian, which will all be done by his 45th birthday, are bound for Do It All Dad glory.
“Your aura of superiority will go poof in his presence, like that. I know cats have nine lives, but I’m not taking my chances with that crazy, zero jaw control bitch, Horrendous Heidi.
“Some dogs never get adopted for a reason, unless your new daughter-in-law jams it down your throat to mark her territory.
“Hope you made fish balls. Miss Kitty loves any fishy delectable treat.”
Baba Grandma says, “I didn’t make fish balls, Matilda.”
Matilda says, “But you give your dog a rib roast, half a goose, and endless ham trimmings, for Christmas. Horrendous Heidi, definitely not a Jew.”
Golden Jew Sandler lives, Challah, thank you very much.