Unbagging the Cats 1

Unbagging the Cats 1

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Covert Cat-Bombings Continue

Every evening when I pull into the garage, after an extended shift toiling away in the kid mines, I am greeted by the same occurrence. Cat bombs.

You'd think that I would have developed a thick skin, a tough outer shell, an unflinching, stoic, demeanor in response to this daily auditory assault. I have not. One minute, I'm chatting with The Pony, who insists on riding in the passenger seat behind me, even though the shotgun seat is empty. Like he has a personal chauffeur. Chatting insouciantly, chortling, perhaps, at The Pony's misadventures, when THUD! A cat thumps onto the roof of my Tahoe from the Machu Picchu-like heights of the garage rafters. My nerves, shredded from a long day of inflicting my will upon recalcitrant adolescents, jangle and jitter in a final hurrah. I flinch.

They appear to own the place, these cats. Two were hand-chosen as pets, before they were even old enough to sever the apron strings. The other three were gifts. Gifts of pet-abandoners who haunt rural roads, inflicting sorrow and guilt upon backwoods denizens who feel obliged to take in the wretched refuse of your teeming kennels. Or who at least feel enough compassion to assure their crying children that yes, the kitties can come home with us so they won't starve to death or be eaten by wild animals.

What they don't explain is that the kitties must be wormed, and have shots, and undergo special operations so they won't make more kitties. And five years later, the kitties will have taken over the grounds, scale the screens of the living room window in attempts to reach the summit of Mount Cedar Home, dash into the house if they see a sliver of an opening, caterwaul at 3:00 a.m. right outside the bedroom french doors, eat like they are carb-loading for a marathon 24/7, and terrorize the actual pet cats until they are fuzzy balls of nerves who appear to suffer from post-traumatic stress syndrome.

Numerous requests to cease the cat-bombing have gone unanswered. 


Kathy's Klothesline said...

We inherited the kamp cat when we bought the place. She is the only cat left here now and will share her food and sleeping arrangements with an old hateful possum who hisses at me. All other attempts at leaving a pet on my door step has failed. There is a no-kill shelter not far from me that will foster and find homes for abandoned animals. I like to contribute foster animals to them. I don't have children, but I do have he who is a sucker for a helpless animal to contend with. A few more years and I should have him trained, though.

Josh Hoyt said...

This is so funny I laughed the whole time. Your posts are a great way to unwind after a long day. Thanks!

Val Thevictorian said...

This was a batch of 4 kittens. Genius heard them crying in the weeds. He got out for the mail, and called to them. Then he begged to keep one. We left them there, and drove a mile home to persuade Hick. He finally agreed to ONE.

We went back and picked up a yellow tiger, and then Genius started in about how The Pony needed his own kitten, too, because it wasn't fair. Hick finally agreed.

We went back, and found that somebody had take the best kitten, a Siamese look-alike. The Pony chose a black/white tuxedo kitten. Then Genius explained to Hick that there was only ONE kitten left, and it would die by itself, and be lonely before it died. Hick finally agreed.

By now, an hour had elapsed. Genius had to call that one kitten out of the woods. It was gray with a white chest. And later developed an infection from a sibling bite that laid open her chest with a hole the size of a silver dollar, and needed $90 of vet consultation and medication.

We don't really like those cats.

Well, my life is kind of funny. Both ha-ha AND peculiar.

hocam said...

With us it is a night time assault raid! Snuffy has learned how to climb up to the dormer window. If you are foolish enough to leave the bedroom window open at night time, you can expect to be woken mid-snore when she lands on your stomach.

Val Thevictorian said...

Animals adapt so well to their environment! I would not dare leave a window open at night. We have a wraparound porch, with the windows about 18 inches from the floor. I do not want to wake up with a possum on my stomach. It's bad enough that I've surprised a possum eating out of the dog dish.