With my house being short a couple of cats and cooler weather setting in, I currently find myself in direct need of a new mouser. I think a cat is a cat. It shouldn't matter what kind, color or sex, right?
Several years ago, one of my cat-loving daughters was able to prove my theory wrong. At the time, she was living in Lawrence, Kansas. I don't know if you've ever been there, but if you are thinking about going, take your Birkenstock sandals, healing crystals, John Lennon style sunglasses, peace-sign head-bands and any other 70s memorabilia in order to fit in because that town is so oddly hippie-like I nicknamed it "The Berkeley of the mid-west" It's been a little over seven years since I've been there. Due to a statute of limitations, I'm now able to return to Kansas after a small misunderstanding one summer involving my reaction to a perceived late night mugging. Thankfully, no one was permanently injured.
Sara showed up for deer season with a pet cat named Saugua in tow. I can only describe it's physical attributes as hideous. This little rat-cat was beyond ugly. It was like a cross between a mutant Siamese and an albino demon-cat. It was rescued from an animal shelter raid of an abandoned farm. This particular beast was three quarters-starved and less than properly hygienic at rescue time. It's skin was missing hair here and there, along with several nicks and scars likely from fighting over what little food was available to the horde of cats it resided with at the farm. As bad I felt for this unfortunate little creature of God, it didn't change the fact that it was one unsightly critter.
What this cat lacked due to aesthetic constraints, it unfortunately could not make up in personality and charm. Sara was able to gain some measure of favor with it, but when it came to anyone else, it was like trying to hold a porcupine/Tasmanian-devil hybrid. I hate to be judgmental. You all know that, right? Anyhow, there was just no other way to describe its personality than "psychotic" That's actually what we called it, "psycho-cat"
Five minutes before she had to leave to go back to Kansas, the miniature feline decided to escape into the nether regions of our laundry room. It found a small opening by the dryer vent to slither through and disappear into the darkness under the basement stairs. Sara could not stay any longer and we decided to try to capture it and take it to her a couple weeks later, as we were heading there for Thanksgiving.
We never heard a sound from it for at least ten days, but we left water and food out for it at night and it would at least take advantage of that. Finally, we had to use a live-trap and sardines as bait to catch it. Once that happened, we had to transfer it to a box for the eight hour trip. This was by no means an easy task. Apparently, cats with a minor to severe mental pathology do not like being placed in a box and have a lid put on it. You learn something new every day, don't you? It's hard to really describe the carnage of that process accurately, but I hadn't bled that much since the 80s. The scene ended with me poking a hole in the box for Saugua-the-cat to breathe. The hole started as the size of a butter-knife poked in and turned in a circle. As soon as the knife was pulled out, precious little Saugua's head came bursting through the small hole like an alien through an actor's abdomen, biting my hand with all the vengeance it's troubled soul could muster. The fleshy part of my hand between the thumb and index finger received battlefield first-aid by my 15 year-old son Bobby while I was making new air-holes with the tip of a pencil with my other hand, being "ever so careful" not to strike the Lord's tiny blessing with one of my gentle thrusts of the pencil into the cardboard box.
At the point we were ready to leave for the trip to deliver this incubus, my blood pressure had lowered enough to safely drive. I allowed for one bathroom break only on this 509 mile trip. Driving the posted speed limit the entire time of course, we arrived in just under six hours. I can only assume google maps has their mileage miscalculated somehow. Never-the-less, the darned cat never quit screaming the entire time.
Sara met us outside her house as we arrived with an anxious and hopeful look on her face. Her countenance changed quickly when she saw the box of screaming cat being taken out of the back seat and greeted us with an unenthusiastic, "Oh I guess you found it, huh?"
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