Put the seat up - short story

I am sick to death of politics, George W. Bush, Dick the Slimy, Rumsfeld, Rice, and the whole damned lot of them. I will never be content until these war criminals are
in jail - or worse.

No, it has nothing to do with the difference between men and women. It has to do with the cats. They drink out of the toilet bowl. They have fresh water every day. And there is plenty of water outside in the pond. They prefer the toilet. The cats belong to my son, Julian, now seven. Inspired by Eliot's "The Naming of Cats," which his mother read to him at an early age, he dutifully named them "Boo Oboe Tramp" and "Gray Gris Cuddly." Fortunately, we refer to them simply as Boo and Gray.
Personally, I'm ambivalent about the cats. They are graceful and sometimes amusing, especially when young. But I like the birds and the squirrels too, and even the little field mice. The cats kill them. They're not hungry. They get plenty of cat food. They kill for the fun of it. They not only kill, they torture, tormenting their poor helpless prey until finally, having satisfied their sadistic pleasure, they dispatch the exhausted, and brutalized creatures to their respective happy hunting grounds. Their only thought (if indeed they can be said to have thoughts at all) seems to be: if it moves, kill it. I can't get rid of them. They belong to Julian. He loves them. He admits to being concerned about their homicidal behavior, and he agrees that the birds are nice. But he continues to want more cats.
"No more cats!" I insist. "Not now, not ever. When something happens to Boo and Gray, that's it. We're not getting more cats. Definitely not. No. That's final. I don't want to hear any more about it."
My son looks at me. He starts to speak but then says nothing, just looks and goes to his room. I love him.
Boo is a long-haired totally black cat. A Halloween cat. Halloween is Julian's favorite event. We lock Boo in on Halloween night. He is basically anti-social. Stand-offish. Independent. He does allow Julian to pick him up and carry him and, much to my fear and surprise, doesn't scratch his eyes out. Mostly he stays pretty much to himself. Being long-haired and not very clean he throws up hair balls. Lots of hair balls.
Gray Gris Cuddly is quite the opposite of Boo. Rescued from the pound at considerable expense, he was so tiny he fit on my hand. He has grown into a sleek, short-haired, quite elegant all gray hunter. He seems to think he's a dog. He adores Julian. Follows him everywhere. To the mailbox. Into the woods. Even out to play football. Sleeps on his bed every night. Comes obediently when Julian calls. Looks out the window for him when he's due home from school. He's as friendly as Boo is distant. I don't care. I'm not crazy about the cats. Either of them. They're killers. I look forward to the day they are gone forever. To cat hell, which, if there is any justice, is where I believe all dead cats should go.
Needless to say, when Boo was done in by coyotes, the question arose immediately. "No more cats!" I raged. "Absolutely not! We don't need another cat. No. No. No. Never. Forget it."
"But dada," my son says seriously. "Please. I'll feed it and take good care of it."
"Yeah," I reply sarcastically. "Just like you feed and care for Gray. If it weren't for your mother he'd starve. No more cats!"
They stand shivering at the entrance to the grocery store. A shabbily dressed brother and sister. They have kittens in a cardboard box. Five of them. "Would you like a kitten? They're really cute kittens." Before I can stop them they hand one to my son. A tiny purring calico bundle of fur. Julian says nothing. He holds the tiny critter to his face. There is so much love in his big brown eyes...