“[Benny, Jackson’s cat,] would walk into the living room, look around, and look at himself–literally take stock, his paws, his tail–and his bewilderment was palpable. It was as if Benny, bus driver and eternal bachelor, had hit his well-worn La-Z-Boy, tired from his ten-hour shift, eaten a Swanson’s Hungry-Man and fallen asleep, fork in hand, only to wake up curled in a donut bed next to a dying fern, his nose in his own ass. He walks out to the living room, trying to shake off a bad dream he’s already left behind, and freezes in realization: ” . . . a cat? I’m a freaking cat?” The talk flicks of its own accord and he jumps. He tries, unsuccessfully, to navigate a world with four legs, paws, and claws. He takes a step, examines his new body. He looks around the room from a vantage point he’s never experienced before. He wants to get to a mirror pronto to see what the hell is going on, but the only one is above the bathroom sink. With his left rear leg still obviously causing a problem, there was no way he was going to jump from the floor to the sink just so he could witness the horror. He dragged the leg behind him and would often whip back in midstride and gnaw at it like it was an unwelcome visitor, grooming it obsessively like if he could just give it a bath it wouldn’t be so annoying.”
–Jackson Galaxy and Joel Derfner. Cat Daddy. New York: Jeremy P. Tarcher / Penguin, 2012. Quote of pages 78-89.