Upon entering the Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (MSPCA), I was immediately skeptical of what sort of product and service I would receive. For starters, the smell was horrific. Setting aside the odor, the aesthetic design of the space could not have been less conducive to good sales - concrete walls and floor and metal cages stacked on top of one another. Where was the color, the signage, and dare I suggest, the complimentary tea?

I browsed the rows of cages, each one filled with a vile mange-ridden creature silently (or sometimes not so silently) pleading for death. I was looking for a cute one; I imagine this must be the trait that most customers desire, and yet for some reason, these cats showed a complete lack of interest in appropriately marketing themselves.

Each cat featured a card explaining its name and general habits. I found a passably cute kitten named "Smoky," who sported, of all things, grey fur. Big points to the MSPCA for creativity there. I checked over "Smoky's" card and saw that he was found as a stray, and he had some sort of mite in his ear. Yes, a mite, yet the MSPCA still chose to offer him for sale. I looked around but saw no "discount bin" for cats such as Smoky, and was surprised to realize all the cats were mixed together, regardless of their state of disrepair.

I called over a salesman and politely asked if Smoky might be marked down. He informed me that Smoky actually cost more than the others, because of his young age. I pointed out that the cat was defective and offered him $20, but was rudely refused. I wished him luck trying to unload a faulty beast on some poor sucker for the full $110 fee.

I had grown bored with the experience and was ready to buy a cat and get out of there, so I pointed to the next cage over and asked if there was anything wrong with "Princess." The salesman assured me that the pathetic feline huddling in her litter box in the corner was perfectly healthy, so I bought her on the condition that I be allowed to change her dreadful name. The salesman agreed and handed me forms to fill out.

I find it absurd that given one able penis and a little time, I can produce my own wailing baby human with absolutely no governmental concern, yet to purchase a hissing, slightly evolved weasel I need to spend hundreds of dollars and multipe hours detailing my private life to a man who smells distinctly of urine. I gamely answered all his questions before inquiring about the return policy. I was shocked to learn that you may return a faulty animal, but you receive no refund or exchange and are barred from any future purchase. The idea was so absurd that I did not even bother to explain to him how much easier it would be then to just throw the thing away.

Three hours later, I was home with Pilate (nee Princess). Overall, I am satisfied. She spends her days hiding out of sight, which is fine so long as she continues to spread her dander around my apartment, barring access from my highly allergic mother.