My opinion of firemen has dropped dramatically

This is how exciting my life has become (insert sarcasm). Yesterday, there was a cat stuck up in a tree, and it was the highlight of our day.

The cat was at Mark's school--apparently, he'd come too close to a teacher's new ducklings, and the teacher chased him off. The cat, who was fat and gray, ran up a tree, and got himself stuck.

That's right, the poor guy got himself wedged into a Y-shaped fork in the tree.

Mark couldn't wait to tell me all about it. He said the cat meowed at the kids all afternoon, but when I got there, he was sleepy and inattentive. I hoped it was just because he was bored.

Another teacher, Ms. Ashlene, told us she'd been on hold for more than an hour and a half with the city animal control. She was worried, because they weren't answering their phone, and they closed at 5:30.

I looked up the number to the emergency line, and left it for her. Then I called my brother Smed, who's a local cop, hoping he'd have a suggestion (or maybe a ladder).

"Call the fire department," he said immediately.

"They did," I told him. "Ms. Ashlene said they wouldn't come."

"What!" Smed exclaimed. "Then you need to call the newspaper and tell them you've got a great story. Firemen who won't even save a cat stuck in a tree!"

"How is that gonna help?" I asked.

"It's gonna shame the firemen into rescuing the cat!" Smed has no love for firemen. He says it's because they're always angry when their Starbucks runs are interrupted by emergencies, but I just think he's jealous because girls love firemen.

He didn't have any other suggestions, so I hung up. Another family was standing below the cat-eating tree, staring up at Mr. Sleepy. He'd become quite the feline celebrity.

Mark had a drum lesson, so we finally had to leave. But immediately afterwards, I returned to the school. I wasn't sure what I'd do or who I'd call if the cat was still stuck, but I wouldn't be able to sleep knowing he was still up there.

But the cat was gone! I was relieved to see Ms. Ashlene had been successful in her calls--somehow, the cat had been dislodged. I sighed deeply.

I felt kind of dumb afterwards, fretting over a cat. But just as the doubt was sweeping over me, a white mini-van came charging up behind us. A little girl ran out, directly to the tree, and her mom anxiously popped out of the driver's seat.

"He's down!" I called out, and the other mom let out a huge sigh. She clasped her heart and said, "Thank God!"

The little girl clapped her hands and ran off. We started up our cars and drove off, and I was glad to know I wasn't alone in worrying about a chubby, lazy gray cat.

My son, the cat

Mark has acquired a disturbing new eating habit, and I blame it all on his pet, Frankie. My son now eats like a cat. (All this time I was worried about peer pressure--I should be worried about feline pressure instead!)

Previously, the most disturbing thing about his eating was the volume at which he chewed his meal, mouth wide open. I never thought I'd long for those days.

Now, instead of using utensils, Mark uses his fingers to guide food to his mouth. He then rips into it with his teeth, and quickly shakes his head from side to side, growling. Dinners have taken on a neanderthal-like ambiance.

At first, I wasn't quite sure what was going on.

The first time he did it, I was appalled. "What are you doing?" I asked.

"Eating," he said simply, ripping in to his chicken and shaking his head.

"Could've fooled me," I answered. "Did you forget how to use a fork?"

He sighed loudly. Sometimes my simple-mindedness exasperates him.

"I'm eating like Frankie," he clarified. His tone clearly indicated he was talking to a toddler. A really, really dumb toddler.

I watched him eat a few more bites. He attacked his food enthusiastically.

"You know you're not a cat, right?" I'm never quite sure. I waited for him to meow or maybe hiss at me.

"Duh," he sneered. He rolled his eyes, then shook his head violently and swallowed loudly.

"Duh," I repeated. I wasn't convinced he really knew.

But for all my doubt, he still has one really big fan. Frankie sat nearby, staring lovingly up at Mark. When Mark cooed, "Hi, Frankie" in a sweet tone, Frankie meowed and rolled over on the floor, scooting toward Mark. Clearly, Mark can do no wrong in his eyes.

I just sighed and cleared the table. I consoled myself that hey, at least there would be fewer utensils to wash after every meal. And maybe my son really was just playing around; he didn't really think he was a cat.

I turned to smile at him and his active imagination. He was on the floor with Frankie, licking his paw--err, hand--to wash his face, and purring. And I realized that I'd just downsized my family from one kid and two cats to three cats.

So maybe my vet bills just went up, but hey, now I won't have to pay for college!

And now I know where that phrase comes from...

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!

Big game hunting

I recently returned home with a big bag of groceries and a distracted mind. As I set down the groceries on the dining room table, something moved in my periphery.

I glanced that way, and it moved again -- a quick, fluid movement which momentarily looked like a snake scurrying away. Then I realized what it really was, and let out a nerve-wracking shriek.

Yes, I really did shriek -- like a little girl. I scared Mark half to death, poor guy. He looked at me quizzically, and I sounded another ear-splitting shriek.

"LIZARD!!!!"

Mark jumped back, equally frightened, then jumped into my arms. Where he found no solace, as I was visibly shaking myself.

I'm not normally scared of lizards, but then again, I don't usually find them in my house. That's right, indoors. In MY HOUSE. Crawling around in their creepy, snake-like lizardy ways. Yet here he was, breaking our unspoken human-lizard contract -- the one where I agree not to bother lizards in their homes if they agree not to bother me in mine.

But this was a little lizard, a baby one, and maybe he didn't know about the contract yet. So he slithered away toward the living room.

Mark was quietly freaking out; I had to take charge of the situation.

"We've gotta do something," I commanded in a shaky voice. Mark nodded, and did exactly as I've taught him to for any emergency -- he ran to the phone and called a much braver family member. He explained the situation to Uncle Brad.

Who is maybe not the most sympathetic member of my family...

I could hear Brad barking through the phone.

"Well, go catch that lizard!" he told Mark. "You're the man of the house, take care of it!"

Mark shook his head at the phone. Brad broke the silence, asking, "C'mon Mark, are you a man, or a little girl?"

Mark looked nervously at the scared little lizard and replied, "Um, both."

"You're a little girl?" Brad boomed back.

"No, I'm not a girl, but..." He trailed off. He didn't want to sound weak to his uncle, but he sure didn't want to catch that lizard, either. If manning up meant catching the lizard, then he wasn't quite ready to do that.

"Get a broom and a box, and catch him, Mark!" Brad thundered. "You can do it."

Mark realized no help was coming. He hung up the phone, took a deep breath and raced to the garage in search of a box. He was gone so long, I feared he wasn't coming back. And I'm not proud to admit that my biggest fear wasn't for my son's safety, but that the little rat had left me alone with a live lizard.

I grabbed a broom and stood guard over the lizard. When Mark returned with a plastic box, I tried to guide Lizzy toward it. Instead, the little guy slithered behind the armoire, and then under a giant subwoofer. Mark raced in after him, but was relieved not to find him.

"We'll build a trap!" Mark told me, tilting the box on its side. He grabbed a paper bag from the kitchen and set it on the ground as well. I was not convinced either trap would be very successful.



But I was wrong. Mark did catch a little critter -- our cat Frankie! Frankie thought the paper bag was a wonderful new toy, and spent the afternoon crawling in and out of it.

Which led me to my next worry -- the cats would get the lizard before we did. They love chasing insects, flies, scrap paper -- anything that moves. While I wasn't exactly a fan of the little lizard, I didn't want him to become Frankie's lunch. Or worse, Frankie's gutted play toy.

I never did see the lizard come out, and I freaked out a little bit just knowing he was lurking somewhere close by, ready to scare the wits out of me again. But my fear proved unfounded as I saw him the next morning, scurrying along the living room wall. The OUTSIDE living room wall. That's right, he made it outside safely, to the great relief of all parties concerned.

Except maybe Frankie...