I never thought, the night when fizzy’s mother said “We are not getting a kitten” even as her daughter was crying, that the next day I would be woken up to “paddy, come downstairs!”
That could only mean one thing. Well, two, as it turned out. I walked downstairs bleary-eyed and bleary-tongued to find not one “bundle of joy” (see later) but two bundles, both of whom I could carry, together, in one hand, but only after they finished eating (which took about half an hour; they were some hungry strays).
I didn’t complain when the vet bills came, I didn’t complain when I started footing their bills nor when it became apparent that this would not stop being the case until they died or were traded for a dog and a cage of mice to be named later. I didn’t even complain when scooping their litter became my task because the smell was too strong for fizzy (amazing how, despite the fact that fizzy wanted cats and I had no desire for any, I ended up being their primary caretaker…).
I did complain when it became apparent in the days after we got both cats that you, Frodo, would see fit to magically declare yourself an outdoor cat. This you would accomplish by running outside any time the door was open; I have since revised my definition of “open” to mean “a door that is not closed firmly enough to prevent Frodo from getting where he shouldn’t be”. It fell to me to get him after he discovered that The Land Beyond The Porch was not in fact a field of green fire but a somewhat plush lawn followed by a Barbed Wire fence.
The fence WAS easily scalable due to the placement of a wooden plank midway up it; it has since become slightly less scalable with the implementation of two more barbed wire lines running high up enough that I can’t jump over the fence holding anything (for example, a ten-pound cat). I can’t safely manuever myself over it at all without using both hands, and since modern science has yet to devise a system for putting one’s hand through a cat and having both emerge unscathed, I must now either hand Frodo (as Mischief, despite his name, does this with the frequency of a dead rabbit) to someone else or drop him over the fence and hope to Barbed Wire that he doesn’t decide he’d much rather be on the other side of the fence.
Every other time before today, either someone else has been home so I could hand Frodo over to that person, or the fence was doable with just the one hand. Today I spent the better part of 20 minutes fetching Frodo from The Field Beyond The Barbed Wire, tossing him over same Barbed Wire. I wasn’t doing hammer throw practice at the same time, so in case anyone thinks there was a chance in Barbed Wire of me gutting the cat, I stood inches from the fence and, barring me suddenly slipping, nothing bad would have happened to him.
I tossed him over. I got over the fence quick as could be and watched him go back under the fence and go back to eating grass.
Mind, the grass was what had tempted him this past Saturday to go past the fence FOUR TIMES.
Guess who got summoned each time to fetch him.
I brought some of that grass back in the house JUST FOR HIM. Just so he could nibble on it. Maybe, with the advent of Easter, he thought he should play the part of Bunny. He doesn’t have the hop or the teeth for it, and I didn’t get no fucking candy, so he failed miserably.
I tossed him over. This time I watched him to make sure he was staying over. He skirted the line so I waited. He kept skirting the line, but by this time he was far away from me, so I climbed over and jogged over to get him.
In the time it took me to get to where he had been, he was six fresh, delicious, freedom-filled inches past the Barbed Wire. In the time it took me to get to where I needed to be to fetch him, he had doubled his freedom. No way in Barbed Wire was I sticking my arm between stretches of Barbed Wire to get him (and putting him through the stuff without injury would have been another story). I trudged back to the place where I could cross over and hoped he wouldn’t have decided he’d had enough freedom for then (at which point it would have taken him T-5 seconds to decide otherwise, where T is how long it takes me to get there under ideal conditions).
We continued this man-and-cat game and he decided that he was tired of The Land Beyond Barbed Wire and wanted to go into The Neighbor’s Yard. In many neighborhoods this would have been followed quite speedily by Ominous Music, and perhaps Another Pet or even The Angry Neighbor. Happily, this was not the case, and all I had to deal with was Frodo’s growing intellect.
He’d figured out that if he hid under a pine tree (or thick bush), that made it difficult for me to scoop him up and carry him back home, where the grass was outside and the door was almost always closed (thus making for dramatic escapes. If the guy who did Shawshank Redemption did cat movies, I’d be rich off this Beloved Kitten). He went from pine tree (or thick bush) to pine tree (or thick bush) and I waited for my opportunity, always staying behind him so he wouldn’t run under the shed (where there was lots of freedom but no light or grass).
A string of four such inhibiting growths ended with one that had thick branches … but they didn’t go far enough down to give Frodo the green armor he’d been using. Quickly Beloved Kitten was scooped up and I started carrying him home.
The problem I’ve had before with carrying Frodo (or Mischief, but I rarely have to do that, so it’s not such the issue) is that after about ten seconds he starts to squirm. After about eleven seconds he remembers he has claws, and at about fourteen seconds he starts using them with the coordination I have previously seen only in those who can write with, among other things, their tongue. And twin DBE prostheses with Dorrance #5 stainless steel hooks.
Thirty feet stand between where Frodo and I are and where The Door is. It has been raining and the ground is not dry, nor is it flat. I am also walking along with a cat who is not a solid weight and also prone to shifting his weight in an attempt to get to The Land Beyond The Barbed Wire, or at least Away From Me. As I figure it (now; at that point my only calculation was a very rough “How tight can I hold Frodo so he can’t escape, but without breaking his ribs?”), I have two feet per second to walk before risking certain annoyance and possible injury.
That is not going to happen. The land is sloped and wet and somewhat rocky, the dog is excited that I am outside and thus in prime position to play with her, and there are trees in the way. Twenty seconds, sure. However, that’s five seconds past how long it usually takes for Frodo to start getting more difficult to contain than warm jello in a sieve.
At five seconds I am most of the way to The Shed, where there is foliage to partially deflect the rain. Frodo is either enjoying the view or sleeping, because either way he ain’t doing jack.
At ten seconds I am to The Shed, which is approximately halfway home. This is not bad, but I still have The Wet Driveway and The Wet Stairs to navigate, and if Frodo and Mischief have been communicating telepathically I know Mischief will be ready to go out for his Freedom Walk as soon as Frodo is inside.
At eleven seconds Frodo realizes that his Date With Freedom might well come to an end before he goes into The Land Beyond The Barbed Wire for the eighth time. “How do I escape, again?” I can almost feel running through his cat-like (more than cat-like, in fact, since he is one) brain.
At thirteen seconds I am on The Wet Pavement. I wait in anticipation, as I walk, for Frodo to wiggle himself free and find some impossibly small nook to dive into. At this point I am afraid that he will evolve the ability to read my mind and see that I am afraid he will wriggle out of my right arm’s grasp and dash across to The Land Beyond The Barbed Wire.
At fifteen seconds I am to The Stairs. This would be a good place to both make me even more pissed off and to dash my hopes for securing him inside, where I can actually rest from this whole ordeal. He, of course, seems entirely unscathed by his Date With Freedom.
I am hoping I will escape unscathed. He is wriggling a bit, but so far my responding arm-tightening and use of both hands have kept him at bay and even made him lessen his bodily objections somewhat.
At seventeen seconds I am to The Door. Here I will have to either evolve a third hand (not bloody likely) or use one of the two already in use to ensure the door can be opened … but give the cat a chance to continue his Date With Freedom.
He squirms. I hold on to him. I risk my hand’s present unclawed state by spreading it out against his chest (heart beating probably as fast as mine was). He might claw it, both to get a grip on me and to hurt me so I let go of him.
At eighteen seconds The Door is open. Mischief stands in front of it coyly. If I could read his mind, he would probably be thinking “Frodo, on my cue, I run outside, you claw him and run. We’ll be to Bristol in a week.”
If they make their way to the open road they will be dead within an hour, if the daily roadkill are any indication.
At nineteen seconds he is inside. Mischief is still inside. The door is closed. I yell at Frodo. “BAD KITTY!” He runs away, but it is both too late and in the wrong direction (away from the door).
My message to you, Frodo, is simply this: you provide fizzy with great amount of joy, but I give her more (different kinds, mostly. Remove mind from gutter, cher pitizen). We are trying to find affordable housing for when we start school somewhere else.
There is not a lot of pet-friendly housing there, and what there is requires deposits that would add up to more than your vet bills have been so far. Meanwhile there is reasonable housing for less money, and am I ever fond of saving money? Why yes, I am.
You are not doing a good job of showing you are worthy of being a College Kitten. One more run out of the house between now and August and I’ll stop looking for pet-friendly placed. fizzy’s mother can take care of you, and I will send her money every month for what is required to keep you alive. She is less inclined than I am to climb the Barbed Wire Fence to go after you. She will not feed you as often as I will, and she will not so often scoop your litter.
Your call.
Love,
Me
Yes, I’m a bit sadistic. But it was fun, and they learned their lessons (mostly).
