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| Pile O' Kittens |
We
live in the country and by country I mean that at night we can hear coyotes
yipping and during the day we can drive 4.7 miles to our choice of five
different banks and the Dunkin Donuts. We live over the bridge and past the
sharp curve, next to the pasture where the wild turkeys roost.
We
also live on a dead end road right down from the county animal control center
(i.e. the pound.) Which means that city folks, people who live five minutes
from the bank, who just can’t bring themselves to take their pregnant girl cat to the pound drive to the end of our street and dump Fluffy off in front of our
house.
Then
they tell their children that they’ve taken Fluffy to the country. Big fat
liars.
Fluffy
immediately goes feral. Feral is a word that means wild. It’s the equivalent of
Fluffy becoming a saber-toothed tiger with a dash of bad tempered panther. Then
pregnant feral Fluffy takes up residence under our chicken coop, looking to
eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow she delivers—two to two hundred kittens.
The
next thing I know, my husband and I are forced to organize a cat roundup
complete with live animal traps, bait, welding gloves, and assorted ancient
hunting methods.
Or
as our granddaughter Zoe (9) said to her mom on their way to our house, “I sure
hope I don’t miss the cat roundup.”
Cat
roundups may sound fun. They’re not. They’re harrowing invitations to divorce
as evidenced by the following exchange.
“Babe,
hurry! Get the cat carrier! I’ve got her,” I said, during a recent cat roundup.
Wearing gardening gloves, I’d managed to sneak up on a hissing, spitting mother
of SEVEN new kittens and grab her by the scruff of her neck. She’d had her
SEVEN adorable kittens in our hen’s nesting box.
“Hang
on,” he yelled, “I need to find my welding gloves.”
The
black, yellow-eyed demon continued to hiss and spit while I started to sweat.
Her tail whipped back and forth. Her SEVEN kittens yawned and stretched.
“Hey,”
he continued, “where are my welding gloves?”
“Are
you kidding? I’m holding a panther in here by my arthritic fingertips.”
The
hissing became snarling.
He
wandered into the chicken coop, pulling on his gloves and carrying the cat
carrier upside down.
“Seriously,
Dude, hurry up.” The snarling exploded into yowling mixed with screaming. Mine.
I
tried to push the cat into the fifty-dollar deluxe leather cat carrier. She
shape shifted into a flying squirrel and launched her thrashing body, claws
extended, at my husband’s right eye. There was more screaming. His.
She
landed against the back wall of the chicken coop and stuck.
“Get
her!” She shape-shifted into an invisible banshee ghost and disappeared.
Her
SEVEN adorable kittens meowed sweetly, flexed their tiny dagger claws, and fell
asleep.
“Why
did you let her get away?” I snapped.
“You
dropped her.”
“My
hands are small. You know that.”
The
conversation deteriorated from there and before it was over he was calling me a
big whiney baby, and I was accusing him of being a foot-dragging slacker. And
we don’t even own any cats.
Please,
I’m begging you. Take care of your cats. The marriage you save may be mine.
Linda
(Great White Hunter) Zern
