Cat Calls

What would you name a three-legged cat? Its given name is Snowy. But that was before Snowy tangled with the garage door. I swear I didn’t plan it. The cat brought it on herself.

The Missus and I were in the garage with the overhead door open for better light while I attempted to explain the workings of her new cell phone and how it interacted with the Honda.

“No more fumbling in your purse when you get a call. No more ignoring my calls because you happen to be driving at the time. When the phone rings, the GPS screen will light up with whomever is trying to call you. All you have to do is push one button, ONE. It’s the big round one right there in the center. It says Enter. Push it and start talking. That’s it. Same thing when you’re through talking. Push the button. Same button. Easy Peasy. Got it? Okay, let’s try it.”

Snowy, curious as all cats are, was on the hood of the car watching with great interest, perhaps considering getting a phone of her own. I stepped back in the house to grab one of the wireless phones for the big test call. I dial it up. Nothing. No answer. I hear a shout from the garage.

“I think I hit the wrong button.”

Sweet Baby Jesus. I return to the car. Check the settings. All is well. I try again. The screen lights up. Display reads exactly as it should…Call From Home.

“The button, hit the Enter button, the big one.”

“This one?”

“Yes, that one. Push that son of a bitch.”

“Hello, Ruth, do you hear me?” Keep in mind that I’m standing right beside her. That alone invalidates the test.

“Yes, I can hear you talking.”

I had to ask. “Do you hear me through the car speakers or because I’m right next to you?”

“Yes.”

“Ooookay, fine. This test is hereby terminated. Push the Enter button to hang up.”

“The big one here?”

I close my eyes. Tears roll down my cheeks.

I hit the down button on the garage door to end this exercise in futility when I hear a feline scream that would do a panther justice. Tufts of white fur flash in the sunlight. Lots of fur. Oh, shit.

Unseen, the Snowy cat had hopped from the roof of the car to the garage door (horizontal at the time), and apparently laid down for a little cat nap. She had caught her right rear leg between the descending door and the framing.

Now, if you know the Missus with her severe and ongoing case of OCD (Obsessive Cat Disorder), you might have some idea of the full blown panic that ensued. And you would fall woefully short of describing the situation. This was Def-Con One, baby, full alert, all hands on deck, sound the alarm. OOOOGAH, OOOOGAH, OOOOGAH!

I did a quick evaluation. It was an obvious fracture, but there was no blood and no bones poking through the skin. Off to the vet. We delivered the cat to experienced hands and found a chair to wait for the results. We waited. And waited. We waited for, oh, about three days, when a lady vet came out to show us the x-rays. It wasn’t good. The options were:

  1. Put the cat down and end its misery.
  2. Amputate the leg, or
  3. Bring in the surgical team to attempt the repair of the bone and tendon at an estimated cost equivalent to that of a new Chevrolet Corvette.

For the record, I hate that cat. It’s a bird killing machine. It destroys carpet and furniture with glee. It scratches, it yowls, it lashes at me when I try to pet it. Even the resident Brat Cat tries to kick its ass every chance she gets. So naturally, I was voting for door #1. Send that ill-tempered, vicious, sorry-ass fur ball to the great litter box in the sky.

The Missus on the other hand, went straight to door # 3 and had her hand on the knob when I let my vote be known in what I thought was the most tactful, logical, and humanitarian argument ever presented. I will spare you, dear reader, the raised voices, the flashing of eyes, the heated exchanges, and just say we compromised with door #2.

A little backstory here. One of the reasons our marriage has held together this long is that we have dual bank accounts. We share expenses proportionately and whatever is left over is yours to use as you wish. Usually this works, until it comes to cats. But to alter the arrangement would be like changing the second amendment. There was bound to be a stink. My options as I saw them were:

  1. Divorce
  2. Lock the Missus in the tool shed.
  3. Shoot the cat… which then loops right back around to A.

You see the problem, right? Hence, the three-legged cat. I did insist that it have a new name. In consideration are:

  1. Tripod
  2. Slinky
  3. Hop-a-long or, (and this is my favorite),
  4. Shithead

And, (drum roll please) D wins by a landslide.

snowy-2

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Published in: on February 16, 2016 at 3:25 pm  Comments (2)  

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2 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. Loved the story, Warren !

  2. My vote is Tripod.


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