It seems like just yesterday when my beautiful cat, Hazel, was an innocent kitten; chewing on my toes, shredding the toilet paper, dreaming of bird snacks. But I blinked and–suddenly–she was eight months old. And you know what that means.

The damned cat is in heat.

I’m typically allergic to cats (I don’t question why that’s not the case with Hazel…I just accept and move on), so I’ve never had to witness this phenomenon before. It’s a rather disgusting spectacle. It’s like watching Spock going through Pon Farr, but with much less dignity. If I wasn’t such a strong proponent of controlling the animal population I’d just let her outside so she could get it on with our neighbor’s cat and end her longing. He’s a big, handsome, orange Tabby–all the neighborhood cats think he’s totally hot–and the resulting kittens would probably be too cute for words.

But no. Instead I called the vet. Bob Barker would be proud.