Picnicery

Oy! I recently had to take my cat into the vet. She's not sick or anything, I just wanted to get her fitted for a glass eye. Not a regular glass eye, but one that looks just like one of those Magic 8 Balls. You'd say to the cat, "Octopussy, will I ever get over Billy Dee Williams?" Then she'd look you right in the eye and you'd see it: Outlook not favorable. I'm a big fan of souping up pets.

In order to take the cat in, I needed some form of pet carrier. Last Christmas, being the benevolent Santa Claus-type I am, I bestowed upon Octopussy one of those fancy plastic pet carriers. It was a pretty nice deal, so nice that I wrote in to the manufacturer asking if they had a version for humans. As nice and valued as it was, I hadn't seen it since I moved roughly a month and a half ago. I had a good idea where it was, but the search proved to be fruitless. I expanded the search to the rest of the house, and still I turned up no kitty carrier. With the appointment looming, I opted to go for Plan B.

I went out into the garage to look at our cardboard boxes. The bounty there was overwhelming (see recent move), and I had to engage in a brief debate on which box was more appropriate, the one for the subwoofer or the one for the breadmaker. Before I could make my decision, I saw something stowed high on a shelf; suddenly, my decision was made. It was a picnic basket. I quickly enumerated its benefits: it had handles for carrying, plenty of holes for breathing, and easy access to the storage area. Also, it made the entire ordeal feel a little more pleasant, as if I were heading to the park to eat some sandwiches and cantaloupe. However, instead of pulling out bologna on rye, I'd be unleashing a one-eyed cat with a weight problem. I counted that as a technicality.

Then, as I reached up for the basket, I spied the actual carrier. As tempted as I was to use the picnic basket anyway, I knew I had to err on the side of dignity here. My cat has it rough enough to begin with, just living with me. Once I start ferrying her around in a picnic basket, I'd probably have to start up a suicide watch.

Also, I could see this whole scenario ending in a call to the authorities. They'd try to make an example out of me and I'd end up doing hard time in Huntsville. After the emotional wounds healed, the cat would come to visit me. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I'd say, while she gave me a look of great understanding. "You've got to help me get out of here; I can't take it anymore." She'd turn her head quizzically, and I'd be forced to lay all my cards on the table. "Octopussy, use the picnic basket. Smuggle me out in the picnic basket!"

Posted by Cody at August 4, 2005 06:38 PM