Whisky Dick



I believe it’s time that I introduce you to the love of my life.

Yes, I have a boyfriend.

No, that’s not who I’m referring to.

This guy in the pictures is Whisky Dick O’Reilly.

He’s my best friend.

He sits in my lap when I’m crying and licks my tears away.

He always tries to lay across my keyboard when I’m working.

He loves baths.

He won’t eat unless I pet him first.

He’s a little bit fat.

He has no tail.

Alright, let me give you the full scoop on him, instead of these fun little tidbits that make my heart sing. My boyfriend and I met in December of 2011. I had just moved to Gainesville, Florida from Orlando, Florida in order to be with Evil Ex Boyfriend Number Three. When Jub (my guy now) first saw me, he went home to his roommates and let them know that he called dibs on me when EEB and I broke up. 

He’s psychic, I swear. 

(Goddammit, Whisky, stop licking yourself in front of my monitor, I can’t see what the fuck I’m writing.)

I’ll tell you completely about the story of Jub and I getting together eventually as well. I’m just full of stories. 

So fast forward to June of 2012, Jub and I have been dating for about a week. Life is good. We drink good whisky and go out on dates and write each other poetry and play Minecraft in bed all day while we smoke weed and love on each other. Well, this Wednesday comes along, my payday. He offers to pick me up and take me to cash my check, which we do. Then we go grab some coffee at Maude’s, which has an amazing iced coffee with almond milk and honey and spices that is just drool worthy. Then we go up the road a bit for some reason or another, and barump barump barump flippity thunk thunk screeeeeeeeee his car gets a flat tire. Shiiiiiiiiit. Not willing to let our day go to shit, we both begin calling every person we know in town (which is no small number) to try and find someone with a tire iron that will fit his car. While waiting for callbacks, we walk down the street, towards this little place called Earth Pets. 

Now Earth Pets is no regular pet store. They have all this handmade, organic, farmer’s market, freshly baked pet food. They make their own little toys. And sometimes, just sometimes, they have cats and kittens. They don’t put them to sleep and they don’t torture them. They don’t display them in a hot glass box for hours on end. They’re allowed to roam around the store and get so much love that it’s disgusting. Jub notices me eyeballing the kittens inside, so we walk on in. 

And then I see him.

A tiny, fuzzy, gray and white ball of awesome.

With no freaking tail.

Climbing over the other kittens’ heads and stomping on fuck all everyone because GODDAMIT HE NEEDS TO GET TO ME. 

I fell in love immediately. 

I probably spent about ten or fifteen minutes there, loving this cat with all my heart while the other kittens slept or shat or played frisbee, whatever the fuck. I didn’t care. This was my cat, and I needed him.

This whole time, there was a tiny white cat that was sitting there, and in between squeaking, (not meowing) it would pass out. Just pass right the fuck out. It just made me irritated that this cat could squeak like that and take some small portion of my attention away from this amazing creature in my arms, licking my nose, sitting on my shoulder, then on my head.

We left.

That night, I got piss drunk and told Jub that if he wanted to win my heart, he would get me the tail-less kitten.

I don’t remember saying this.

But I do remember the next day, when I got off of work, Jub telling me to check my Facebook.

And there was the single greatest love letter that has ever been written.

And it was written by my cat.


I’m prisoner JB42-0. I would like a name. Once, a man called me O.B.K.B. I really liked it, although I don’t know if it was my real name. I’ve been a prisoner my whole life, and I can just feel, I know, I don’t belong here. I want to belong with you. This cage is a damn asylum of bipolar shittle-dicks, for lack of a doper insult. My only friend is a narcoleptic asshole who passes out standing up, mid conversation, always holding his “I just don’t give a fuck” attitude over my head. And then there’s the squeaking, the god damn squeaking. This piece of shit below me, day and night… It’s not fucking cute anymore, dude. I swear, if I have one more sleepless squeak-filled night, I’m going to lose my shit. Seriously. Take a good look at my pic. I am clearly a kitten on the brink of losing his fucking shit. I’m convinced they took my tail only to better place me among these jerk-face psychopath megalomaniacs. But I’m good. I swear, I’ll be good to you. We’ll rub faces all day in a happiness that borders temporary insanity, involuntarily smiling from ear to ear. Granted, someday I am going to strut around, relishing in the fact that I’m better than you, and clearly convinced I am King Shit up in this motherfucker. But even then I’ll have my moments of weakness, and no matter how tough I get, I will know, I’m your cat. And whenever you need me, I will be overcome with that familiar feeling of pure happiness and be at home in your arms. So what do you say, you want to do dis shit?


This was all preceded by a photograph of Jub holding this tiny furball of amazing up to the camera…in his room. 


I squealed for about 10 minutes straight.

Not only did I know immediately that this guy I had only recently begun to date was going to be the man I stayed with for the rest of my life, but that he also had given me the greatest give I could ever hope for. 

And he did. 

Whisky Dick O’Reilly. 

Who would sit on my shoulder as I painted murals on my wall. 

Who can’t keep his tongue inside his mouth.

Who refuses to let me be inside of any room with him on the other side of the door. 

Who guards me while I pee.

Who waits by the door for me to come home whenever I’m gone.

Who sleeps on my tummy and licks my nose until it’s red and raw and I don’t even give a fuck.

Because he’s my whole little tiny kind of fat heart-repairing world.


2 thoughts on “Whisky Dick

  1. Pingback: This is why cats are basically jerks. | justcockblog

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