I often use this phrase to describe a difficult situation: "It's like herding cats." I've used it most often when describing Cub Scout meetings or soccer practice, but I don't think I've ever actually used it to describe cats. Until today...
In addition to housing two humans, two cats, and one baby lizard, our home is also sheltering termites. Which is about 1,000 occupants too many. Since I pay the mortgage, I determine who stays and goes, and I voted the termites out.
Unfortunately, eviction consists of poisonous gas being pumped throughout the structure. Which meant moving the humans, food and cats out for a few days.
The first two gave me no trouble, but the last one...wow!
It started on Thursday, when I brought the cats in for their shots. Somehow they just knew I was taking them to the vet. Frankie skittered around the house nervously, and Elvis flat out hid and refused to come out. Instead of taking them both to the vet, I only took Frankie, who objected by wetting his crate. Fun times.
Elvis, who spends 99% of his time sleeping on my bed, somehow knew I would try again on Saturday (I think Frankie told him). I had to grab and drag him out from underneath the bed, while Mark waited in the garage with the carrier.
"Open the door!" I yelled at him from the office. "I've got Elvis, and he's MAD!" I threw the growling, hissing cat into the carrier and wiped the sweat from my brow.
And that was only the dress rehearsal! The real show came yesterday, when I had to transport BOTH cats to the pet hotel at the same time.
Once again, I enlisted Mark's help. I picked him up from school, his hair still painted blue and red in celebration of Red Ribbon week.
I ran through the plan with him, which was this: I would scoop up the sleeping Elvis, put him in the carrier and put the carrier in the garage so Frankie didn't hear him yowling. Mark would play with Frankie and keep him occupied until I could get him in his carrier.
Elvis executed his part of the plan wonderfully. He was in the garage before I could say boo.
Mark also cooperated. Frankie, however, was the lone holdout.
"I've got Frankie!" Mark called out, and when I entered the room, I saw that he certainly did. He was sitting on top of Frankie, trapping him, while Frankie furiously tried to free himself.
I grabbed Frankie and made a run for the carrier. Frankie spit, hissed, and eventually dug his heels into the side of the carrier so I could not push him in. He hissed some more, then threw up on the bed, then busted the door off the carrier. Mark scrambled to help me, but Frankie even hissed at him.
We finally got him in, but it was like caging a rhino. He kept smashing against the carrier. I found a lanyard and tied the busted door shut, but that only slowed him down a little.
I opened the door out to the garage, and was met by Elvis.
"What the..?!" I said, completely surprised to see him roaming freely. Apparently, while shoving him into the top door of his carrier, I hadn't noticed the side door was open. Elvis had simply walked out, and was wandering around.
While I grabbed him and put him back in, Mark informed me Frankie had wet his carrier. The acrid odor confirmed this, but I gagged and said, "Push on!"
We loaded the screeching cats into the car. Mark tried soothing them, telling them in a sweet voice, "Don't worry, it's not that far away." He immediately changed his tone with me and asked worriedly, "It's not that far, right?"
I assured him it was not. Five minutes later, we unloaded the cats, their food, their paperwork and the plastic bag lining the car seat (Frankie had ruined my last car's upholstery in a similar fashion). Mark slooowly unloaded the food and papers, and when I begged him to hurry, he reached for a stray juice box and inquired if he could have it.
"Seriously?" I asked him. "Now, while I'm trying to keep Frankie from escaping in the parking lot?"
"I feel low," he told me. That would have been good information about, oh say, 10 minutes ago!
And so we arrived at the pet hotel -- my stinky, wet, barfing cats protesting in their carriers; my blue-and-red haired low-blood sugar son, whose sweaty hair was melting into what looked like bloody red rivers flowing down his face; and me, just plain frazzled and trying not to drench myself in Frankie's urine. And then, just when I thought it couldn't get worse, the attendant brought out a huge, barking dog who announced himself eagerly to the cats.
"I'll be right with you," the attendant told us, and I almost burst into tears from the stress of it all. My patriotic red-white-and-blue son found a chair and drank his juice.
Eventually, his blood sugar came up. Frankie and Elvis were escorted to their private kitty cottage, and while not entirely happy, at least they were quiet. They were still mad, though, and refused to acknowledge us. But the kitty next door meowed eagerly at Mark, who happily pet him.
We left the hotel, exhausted. Mark ran along the wall, looking closely in all the fish tanks. I envisioned a cold beer waiting at home for me, and smiled.
Until I remembered that beer, along with all our other food and drinks, was double-bagged in the fridge, and inaccessible. I sighed.
But I suddenly realized the magnitude of what I'd just accomplished -- I was now, officially, an expert cat wrangler!
And so, the next time I say, "It's like herding cats," it won't just be an empty phrase. I'll be speaking from experience!
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