For those of you who don’t know, I have a cat. While any cat is a cat that no heterosexual male should own, mine is particularly gay. Her name is Queasy and she is some kind of white, mega-furry lazier-than-average breed.
She tips the scales at a hulking 7 pounds, has no claws, and is as dangerous as a pile of socks. I have seen her wake up from a nap so she could go do the only other thing she does, and have to take another nap before she made it across the room to crap on my computer bag. There. Now you know Queasy.
I had to take her to get her shots and have her mouth stapled shut because her breath smells and she eats too much. A few days after that I have to take her back to get her fur clipped and some of the filth washed off of her. In preparation I made the following list of items I need:
(1) Pet carrier
(1) 10×16 sheet sign quality black adhesive vinyl
(1) 15×30 sheet sign quality orange adhesive vinyl
(1) #11 Xacto knife
(2) Leather work gloves
(1) can black spray paint
(10) 8-32×3/4” pan head bolts
(10) 8-32 nylon insert lock nuts
(24) 3/16” galvanized fender washers
3 square feet 1/8” hardware cloth
(1) Dream of a funnier tomorrow
By rigging up her “pet taxi” (removing the cardboard tabby with the turban that used to serve as the driver) and transforming it into Queasy’s rage cage, I think I will be able to convince everyone at Petsmart that this particular carrier is housing something darker than the heart of a thousand Satans and twice as violent.
Oh, believe me, if I had the time, I would rig up a remote-controlled solenoid that would violently spring the door open so everyone would just go bonkers.
So I took her to Petsmart to get her oil changed and as luck would have it, a lady was sitting there with her son. Her son was maybe 5 years old, and very curious about the cage at my feet in which Queasy was snoring her ass off. He started toward it and his mom grabbed his arm and warned him not to go near it. I said it was okay and told the kid, “You can look, but be careful.” I whispered to his mother that it was just a sleeping housecat and there was less than zero danger and went back to filling out some paperwork.
I could see the kid out of the corner of my eye, creeping up on the cage like he was defusing a bomb. When he got about a foot away, I kicked the cage because I have no humanity left in me.
Here’s something I completely forgot about, since I spend as little time around children as I can: When you startle an adult, he or she goes “HOOOSHIT!” and jumps back a little and laughs nervously and everybody wins. When you startle a five year old, they cry.
Another thing: Making a child cry is right up there with accidentally running over one on the list of things you have to apologize for. Luckily his mom didn’t seem angry. Little guy was hugging his mom’s knee, bawling his head off. I sprang into damage control mode, saying “Aw, no…no…it’s okay buddy. It’s just a weird looking cat. Here, look…” and I opened the cage and reached in. This momentarily freaked him out even more, because he probably thought that whatever was in that cage was about to kill everyone in Petsmart. He put his mom between him and the cat and buried his face in her leg.
Finally we got him calmed down and he spent the next few minutes trying to get her to play with a string. She wasn’t too in to that, so he started sculpting her fur into different shapes, which I’m sure she loved.
So I’m still trying to decide whether or not I am a bad person for thinking that whole thing was so damn funny.
Next week they’re going to shave her, so here’s hoping that cats don’t have self esteem, because The Skirt and I have blocked off our calendars to make room for the time we will spend laughing at her.
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