reading: Let’s Meet on Platform 8.
Last night I started A Charge to Keep, at Fred’s recommendation. About twenty pages in, I looked at him and said “Does the entire book read like a campaign speech?”, and he gave me a dirty look and said “Maybe you should read something else.” So I am. It’s an extremely rare political-type book that can hold my interest.
Finished last week: Summer in the Land of Skin and Death in Bloodhound Red.
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Friday sucked ass for the following reasons:
1. I had to get up at 4:50 so that I could exercise before my 8:30 appointment on the other side of Huntsville.
2. I had to drop Spot off at the vet around 7:45, so they could give him his immunoregulan shot at some point during the morning. I had exercised, cooled off, showered, dressed, and blow-dried my hair, and the entire time I was doing all this, Spot was hanging out in various places within my view, completely relaxed and chilled out.
Well. As chilled out as he gets, anyway.
The instant I brought the cat carrier upstairs, he disappeared. Using my skills of deductive reasoning, I decided he was under the bed in my bedroom. I shut the door, bent down, and directed the can of compressed air under the bed. Spot shot out and ran around in twenty or thirty frantic circles before running into the bathroom. I cornered him in the bathroom, picked him up, and spoke soothingly to him. I walked out into the hallway, to find that THAT FUCKING SHITHEAD MISTER BOOGERS had jumped into the cat carrier.
“Stumpy, get out of the carrier!” I said. He just stared at me. I bent down and attempted to put Spot in the carrier and simultaneously pull Mister Boogers out of the way. Mister Boogers and Spot both flailed around, making my task impossible. I stood back up, trying my best to hold onto Spot, and picked up one end of the cat carrier.
“Get out of the carrier, dumbass!” I said to Mister Boogers. Who responded by going flat and staring up at me with dark eyes as though I was implementing a fun new game.
Spot flailed around until he got two of his back claws in the front of my shirt, and then he kicked, tearing the shirt and leaving a nasty clawmark across my boob. I could no longer hang on to him, and he leaped to the floor and bounded away.
I lost my shit.
“GET OUT OF THE CAT CARRIER!” I bellowed at Mister Boogers, who went impossibly flat. He was like liquid cat, spreading to fill every bit of the floor of the cat carrier. “GET OUT! GET OUT!” I bellowed, picked up the cat carrier, held it upside down, and shook it. He went starfish, all limbs straight out to hold him in the cat carrier. I could see nothing but a fluffy little stump of a tail, waving in the breeze.
“GET OUT!” I yelled, putting the cat carrier on the floor. “OUT, YOU FUCKER! OUT! OUT!”, and finally Mister Boogers hopped lightly out of the carrier and looked up at me, head cocked to the side and eyes glittering.
For the next fifteen minutes I rampaged through the house like an asshole, scaring the holy fucking hell out of all the cats except for Mister Boogers, who followed me around from room to room and watched me with not an iota of fear on his face, although he did duck when I turned in his direction.
I chased Spot from room to room, and then suddenly he disappeared and I couldn’t find him anywhere. He wasn’t upstairs under any of the beds, and as I made sure each room was clear of his presence, I slammed the door closed so he couldn’t go in there.
“THIS IS NOT GOING TO WORK, BUDDY!” I shrieked. “YOU HAVE TO GO TO THE VET! GET IN THE FUCKING BOX!” Like he was going to suddenly come to his senses and see reason, running from his hiding space and hopping willingly into the carrier.
Miz Poo huddled in terror under my desk, her eyes hugely dark, and Spanky hid behind a box in the library, peering out from time to time to make sure I wasn’t coming after him.
I bellowed the entire time, curse words I’ve never even heard of before; I have no idea where they came from. I’m amazed the neighbors didn’t call the cops.
I finally found Spot under the loveseat. I lifted it up to look underneath – I was imbued with Superman-like strength in my rage – and he cowered for a moment, and then fled out of the living room. I tried to corner him in the computer room, but there are two doorways in the computer room and neither of them have doors, so he basically ran in one door, through the room, and out the other door with me in hot pursuit. He ran upstairs and into my bedroom – I’d stupidly left that one door open. He ran under the bed, and when I leaned down to spray compressed air at him, he ran out from under the bed, down the stairs, and under the loveseat again. I chased him the entire way, swearing at the top of my lungs.
I lifted up the loveseat and he shot out of there like a greased pig. I was so pissed off, I threw the can of compressed air at the wall, and it left two nice-sized dents before the plastic parts of it shattered all over the floor.
At this point I was absolutely seeing red, but I knew in a tiny little corner of my mind that if I got my hands on Spot I was going to hurt him, and I had to stop chasing him, and just leave the house.
Which I did. I left the house twenty minutes later than I’d intended and ten minutes later than I should have if I wanted to be on time for my appointment. I called Fred when I was sitting at a red light, and we talked for a few minutes. He told me I should just give it a try later on when I got home from my appointment, and I expressed my certain belief that there was no way on god’s green earth Spot was ever going to let me within twenty feet of him again, let alone allow me to pick him up and put him in the cat carrier.
When I was almost to my appointment, the phone rang.
“Pick Spot up on your way home,” he said.
“Huh?”
“I’m taking Spot to the vet’s to drop him off. You can pick him up on your way home.”
Fred had left work and driven the ten minutes from his office to the house. He walked into the house, grabbed the cat carrier, located Spot under the loveseat, picked him up, put him in the cat carrier, and left the house. All in the space of two minutes.
Because he is a fucking fucker.
* * *
My god, that got long. The rest of my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day will be up tomorrow.
* * *
“If she starts stomping around and swearing at me, I’m going to poop my pants.”
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