Unbagging the Cats 1

Unbagging the Cats 1

Friday, June 1, 2012

Not Exactly a Ram's Head, or a Galloping Mustang

I don't mean to brag. I'm sure you know how selfless and unassuming I am. So modest. Never wanting to put the spotlight on myself. But I have a new gewgaw for my Tahoe. Don't be hatin'. But I'm pretty sure it's one-of-a-kind. Sorry for the lack of a photo. But we don't need the green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head once y'all get a gander at my very special automobile accoutrement.

Okay, so at the moment, it's not brand spanking new. But it was new two weeks ago. I've actually been trying to get rid of it. I'm tired of those looks people give me. Pure envy, I'm sure. But my classic hood ornament does help The Pony spot me in the school parking lot.

This little trinket came as a complete surprise. One afternoon I parked my Tahoe in the garage, and the next morning I had this unique gift. It's quite breathtaking, if I do say so myself. I can't thank Hick, or either of my boys. Are you kidding me? They would never think to give me a present on a day that's not a Hallmark holiday. No, the credit for this gift lies entirely with my feline friends.

At first, I assumed the tan lump on the hood of my rig was another pile of regurgitated Diamond cat food. That stuff has been unofficially recalled, I think, due to harboring (allegedly!) salmonella. But such a situation has never caused Hick to vary from his pet-food-buying routine. Oh, he KNOWS about the recall, because I told him. If I remember correctly, his response was, "Huh."

The first inkling that the lump might not be dried vomit was the fact that, upon the second day, it was still there. All of you cat people know that any self-respecting cat will eat its own upchuck. But there it was. Off-center, on the passenger side of the hood, about halfway between bumper and windshield. A disturbing thought entered my mind. What if it's poop?

It's not nearly so bohemian to be driving around Backroads with a pile of poop on your car hood as it is to be displaying a colorful, recycled, cat-food haystack. So I instructed The Pony to remove it. Over a week ago. But The Pony, his father's son, kept forgetting. And I certainly was not going to go after it myself. That's what men are for. But apparently not for putting wedges of a delicious sliced cantaloupe into a container and refrigerating it after they've eaten their fill.

Two days ago, I commanded The Pony, "Go out to the garage and knock that cat poop or vomit off the car. I don't care what you use, as long as it's not one of those fishing poles hanging on the wall. They have hooks."

The Pony returned shortly. "Um. It's not poop. And it's not vomit. It's a giant hairball."

"Oh. At least it's gone now."

"Not really. I started to knock it off, and it came apart."

"But you got rid of it."

"No. I just told you."

"I told YOU to go get rid of it."

"Well, you said to get rid of the poop or vomit. And it was a hairball. So I left it."

Sometimes I think The Pony has a touch of Asperger's. This was one of those times. And since he meant well, and followed my directions to the letter, and was not being all adolescently angsty like his brother would have been, I let it go.

I still have my hillbilly hood ornament. Yesterday's rain washed the cat footprints off my black Tahoe's hood. And it soaked that hairball like a salon shampoo. But it's still there.

I wonder if cat saliva has some special component, some high-demand enzyme that might make it a delicacy, like the cave swift nests used for soup. Perhaps I could get my own cooking show on the Food Network. Or market a line of feline fluid products through the frozen food section of Walmart.

Nah. I doubt that the beeper-cart people would buy Cat Spit Soup.


Sioux said...

If you're fond of the Sweet Potato Queen books (the book on "Love" or "Men and Love" or whatever is the best), they have a cookbook and one of the recipes is "Catshit Cookies." They're no-bake cookies, made with cocoa and oatmeal, are delicious, but they do indeed look like cat poop.

Don't let your dream get squashed before you soar towards the clouds with it. I say take a stab at your own cooking show. I'm sure there are other delicacies you can feature on the show besides the hairball dish...right?

Mrs. Tuna said...

Well we all know you need a dog to get rid of an upchucked fur ball. Just hoist your pup up there for a little afternoon snack.

Leenie said...

Maybe the Tahoe just got tired of that shiny noggin and got hair implants. I understand the process of filling in a bald spot takes a few visits to the surgeon people. Keep us posted if Tahoe is soon sporting a full head of hair.

Linda O'Connell said...

You can take a pile of crap or upchuck and make me laugh out loud. Your stories would be delightful for the Not Your MOther's Book...On Family.

Val said...

I've heard of the Sweet Potato Queen books, but never read one. I'll check into that. Because who WOULDN'T want a recipe for Catshit Cookies?

It might not be appetizing to some folks, but I think my Tower of Soup would be a good start for my premiere. Then we can move on to the Floor Hamburger.

That sounds like entirely too much effort for me to put forth. Maybe I can pull up close to the porch so she can jump onto the hood.

Or maybe I can market a giant trucker cap for cars.

As soon as I'm done making silk purses out of sows' ears, and chicken salad out of chicken sh*t, I'll shoot a story over your way. Because if anybody can relate her family to a pile of crap, it's ME!