Being a pet in our house has been a dangerous occupation these past twelve months. We started last year with two cats and two rabbits and by the end of 2013, had lost 75% of our menagerie. Before you call the Humane Society, both the cats were 18 years old so had lived long lives and we took the $30 rabbit for a $350 vets visit (also discovering that she was in fact a he) and then hand feed him/her for 10 days before he/she finally died. But that’s a story for another time.
Our one remaining pet, a Silver Marten rabbit, is a beautiful looking but curmudgeonly thing who only lets Sarah pick him up and being petted and sitting on your lap are very low on his list of things to achieve in a day. So with my chemo coming up and thinking that a little cat companion would be heart warming, I decided the time had come to listen to Sarah’s constant begging and promises that she’d actually clean out the lit tray, and get another cat.
Both the girls are still in FL, spending some time with Steve’s parents, so Sarah gave me permission to go to the MSPCA and get the cat in her absence, as long as I kept in mind her list of essential attributes before bringing one home. Off I go on my mission, coming home with a beautiful little year old cat, name yet to be decided.
Thinking myself the great, all-knowing cat whisperer, as after all I grew up with cats and have owned them all my life, I did not pay as much attention to the words of advice being given to another family at the shelter as perhaps I ought. “Be careful”, the shelter volunteer said, “keep your cat in a small room, like a bathroom, for the first few days because in their fear, they can crawl into little spaces and get lost”. What’s that phrase about great advice falling on deaf ears?
I get home, proudly open the cat carrier to show Steve my wonderful choice and the cat shoots out of the box, slinks down the stairs and into our unfinished basement before I have had time to say Jack Robinson (some of you are going to have to look up what that means). Steve finds her once, she escapes again and vanishes, apparently into thin air. There we are, the pair of us, undoing all the good work of our time away together, pulling apart the basement, with me sobbing “I am a cat killer” and him responding “that isn’t helping, please just shut the #%^* up!!!”. And still no cat, not even the next morning. We had owned this cat for 16 hours and we’ve laid eyes on it for 30 minutes, including the 28 minutes it took me to drive home from the shelter.
But luckily for all, this story has a happy ending. My very good friend, Gertie who is a pet lover and shelter volunteer comes riding over the next morning on her white horse (metaphorically speaking), pulls me out of my pet murderer miasma with words of support and encouragement and helps me search the whole house. We look everywhere and still nothing – not a meow, not a scratch, as nothing as nothing can get. As a last hope, we finally decide to unscrew a 4′ false wall under the stairs in the basement. We have to use flash lights to even see, lie on our stomaches in all the cobwebs, use all our unscrewing ingenuity on rusty, worn out screws, before we open up a 6″ gap behind the wall. And who is quietly sitting there waiting for us? Yes indeedy. I have never been so happy to see anything in my life, except for the time I lost Sarah at the beach when she was 5, but yet another story for another time.
Off for my wig appointment tomorrow. Thinking I’ll get two – one like my everyday hair and the other like the hair I always wished I had. Make sure you check out the Wallace and Gromit toupee video I added in my last post. It’ll make your day if you need a good laugh.
Love to all,
Amanda
Leave a Reply