The one where I start stealing my neighbor's cats.

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916811230646970708.post-63678900393481008082008-06-20T10:31:00.003-05:002008-12-11T15:10:04.867-06:002008-12-11T15:10:04.867-06:00The one where I start stealing my neighbor's cats.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VTZjrOFLAKg/SFvN49dL52I/AAAAAAAACAM/4JtJqT_t2r4/s1600-h/IMG_3776.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_VTZjrOFLAKg/SFvN49dL52I/AAAAAAAACAM/4JtJqT_t2r4/s400/IMG_3776.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5213987372064827234" border="0" /></a>I've been walking to work this week, despite the 80+ degree temps that, though mild for many of you southern folk, tends to make me sweat in places that I didn't even think sweating was possible- like my eyelids and belly button. It's nice out, I walk to work, dammit. I don't make the rules, but I'll be damned if I'll break them. I usually follow a bike path situated along the fence that runs down 35E. This is a nifty little path that, on my bike, gets me downtown in about 6 minutes. Next time I'm spending an afternoon drinkin' on the patio of the Liffey, I know how I'm getting home. This path is REALLY secluded at points, and more than once I have run into meth heads perparing to have some sort of meth fest in the woods. I have also encountered snakes, low-flying birds, snooty "bikers" in their totally gay spandex shorts, several dead squirrels and more empty booze bottles than I could count (none mine, thank you very much.) But, it's shady and makes the journey to work so quick that I would be embarrassed if I didn't walk. Coming home last night, I was about 4 blocks from my house when I spy something familiar: a black cat scurrying across the sidewalk. "Funny..." I thought. "That kind of looks like one of my cats." The thought then crossed my mind that one of my furry prisoners had possibly escaped- visions of cat-exploring and bird carcasses dancing like butterflies in their little brain. I like to think that they would set up their own little fiefdom and rule with a gentle but firm hand, making sure that no cat, whether they be a stray or a pampered Persian, goes without Friskies and a friendly daily butt-sniff. I like to think that I'm not a freak and thinking about these things is normal, so humor me. The cat in question had darted under someone's porch. I had a bad feeling about this situation, so I stopped by the house and started meowing/calling to the cat. I heard a faint little "mew", but no sign of the inky dark kitty. "That's not your cat, silly. Go home" I thought. I walk in the house and the Mr. comes bounding down the stairs. "Trouble got out. I can't find him." Dammit, dammit, dammit. Instantly I blamed the Mr, which seemed perfectly reasonable to me. I started mentally filing for divorce as I tossed my bag down, started hyperventilating and ran back out the door. "Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Fuck!" The Mr. looked sheepish. I don't handle this stuff well. My poor little guy, out there all alone... Who will give him squishy food, I asked myself. WHO WILL GIVE HIM SQUISHY FOOD???? CAN"T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE SQUISHY FOOD???????????????????? O.k, so I REALLY don't handle this sort of stuff well. So, I ran back (flailing or freak-out running might be better terms) to where I saw the black cat. "Meow, meow, meow" I called to the porch. God, I was talking to a porch. What a tard. Five minutes of meowing, crawling around on my hands and knees in a stranger's front yard and mentally signing the divorce papers in my head later, I see a black furry face appear. I gingerly approached the beast and noticed he didn't have a collar on. Bad Trouble! You escaped your collar too? You're a crafty one- that's for sure, you little scamp. The cat hopped up the stairs of the neighboring house and began meowing. I hurried up to him and went to pick him up to smother him with kisses and take him home. About half of a second before I scooped him up, I realized that this cat was fatter than Trouble. Too late. I had him in my arms and realized that "Shit!" "This isn't my cat!" Just then the front door opened and a startled-looking woman appeared. "Um, Mycat'smissingandIthoughtthiswasmycatbutit'snotmycatandI'm sorrybutIthoughtitwasmycathaveyouseenmycat?" She looked at me and testily says: "No, that's not your cat." as she grabbed him out of my arms and quickly ducked into her house. As she was closing the door I tried to get a plea in. "My cat got out. If you see him, he's wearing a skull and crossbones collar..." She looked horrified. "Um, thanks." I mumbled. Door slams. Damn. We found the little turdlet safe and sound at the next-door neighbors, tucked percariously under a scratchy shrub. All is well with the world. And after a stern talking-to about actually watching the cats when they go outside, I've decided to give the Mr. another chance. But he's on thin ice, that one. I think he owes me something either sparkly or boozy for my pain and suffering. Well, pain and suffering and the fact that I am now going to be regarded in my neighborhood as a cat thief. A drunk, meowing, watering the plants in my pajamas, singing to myself cat thief. Lovely. Happy friday, my fuzzy little free-roaming turdlets. Happy Friday. XOWhiskeymariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16680444919622976790candycanewhiskey@yahoo.com31