Suzy Says

The Great Dog Rescue Adventure led to the Great Cat Conundrum.

I was cautiously backing the giant dog-rescuing car through the slightly creepy (and very narrow) passageway, on my way to return said car to the rental agency, when my neighbor Patricia approached with a little cat in her arms. “Whose cat is that?” I asked. “No-one’s,” she replied. It turns out that the kitty was a stray whom Patricia had finally managed to lure into the house after several weeks. Not only was the cat abandoned (Patricia cut off a very tight flea collar which had clearly been put on the cat when she was much younger), but she was pregnant, too.

Patricia, who is in marketing and knows what she’s doing, placed the adorable feline in my arms. The cat cuddled up to me and licked my nose. Then she looked straight into my eyes with her clear, gold-green eyes.

I melted.

I gave the cat back to Patricia and gave the car back. I kept thinking about that darn cat.

The next day, Patricia asked me to come over for coffee in her back yard. It was wonderful to sit in the sun and sip coffee among her flowers. The little cat jumped up on my lap and made herself at home. She’s about 90% tummy at this point, the rest of her being petite and willowy. Did I mention she’s beautiful?

My concern about adopting this little girl is Rita. Rita’s an old lady and likes her routine. She’s the Queen of Everything and used to lots of attention from her many adoring admirers. She is also an inveterate cat chaser. So I don’t want to take the cat in from the streets, only to have her terrorized in her new home by something that looks to her to be approximately the size of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. I also don’t want to put Rita’s shapely nose out of joint.

To cat or not to cat? That is the question.

First things first: happy 65th birthday to the great Brian Wilson!

Now for the less festive part of our program:

I got up really, really early, had a cold bath and hot coffee*, and went to have a mammogram. Ask any girl, and she’ll tell you that these are not for the faint of heart or full of boobage. Sorry, guys, but every time I have one, I think that if men had to endure this annual squeezefest of an extremely vulnerable body part, they’d have come up with something better a long time ago. Same goes for both the PMS and the P itself: there would be something better than Advil and heating pads, which appears to be the sum total of medical knowledge in that area.

While waiting in the hospital’s crowded lobby for an elevator, a man in an orange jumpsuit shuffled in, accompanied by two intimidatingly-sized policemen, complete with bulletproof vests and guns. The prisoner’s hands and feet were manacled, joined by a waist chain; hence the shuffling. I thought, “Now, there’s someone whose day is definitely worse than mine.” I was surprised that the cops allowed the general public to be in the elevator with their little entourage, but maybe I’ve seen too many movies. I did note, however, that they pressed the button for the 15th floor, which was the only floor without a description (X-Ray; Patient, etc.) listed.

The smushorama took longer than I had anticipated, what with the disrobing and squashing and waiting and re-robing. I had to rush home to pick up the lovely Rita for her medical appointment, which I’m sure she enjoyed as much as I enjoyed mine.

The day before, my friend Charlie noticed what he thought was a cut on Rita’s lip. Horrified that I hadn’t noticed it, I called the vet, berating myself for being a bad mother while on hold. I made an appointment for the next day. When the vet examined her, she said that it wasn’t a cut at all, but Rita’s natural coloring. Felt like the idiot I am, but was relieved Rita is fine. The doctor did whole check-up and said Rita was in excellent shape. Feeling relieved, I was relieved of the usual cash and we were free to go.

It wasn’t even noon yet.

*In my adorable new daisy mug. Definitely the best part of the morning.

If you count Rita. And I always do, even though she was just an innocent bystander in this latest adventure.

A friend of a friend had rescued two dogs from a bad situation (I didn’t ask for the details; it’s against my happy bunny policy of remaining as ignorant of ickiness as possible) and needed help transporting them to their new home. All I’d have to do is rent a car, drive three hours out of the city, meet FoF and buddy in a McDonald’s parking lot, load dogs into car and drive back to the city to deliver them to their new and improved home.

In retrospect, it doesn’t seem like the brightest idea to meet two stranger-ish guys with two big dogs* at night in a parking lot, especially a McDonald’s one, but two weeks after losing Jed, it seemed like good karma and a good deed. Rita decided to stay home and hang out with Charlie instead – a wise choice. But then, she is smart and beautiful.

FoF provided me with a painstaking list of suggestions and advice along with directions to the Designated McDonald’s, such as “Make sure your cell phone is fully charged” and “Do NOT SPEED, especially on the way back. You don’t want two big dogs freaking out the police”. You’d think I was transporting plutonium across international borders.

Come to think of it, though, rental car places often seem to regard dog hair with the horror usually reserved for hazardous waste. I once rented one which ended up with a liberal coating of Rita fur on the back seat. On returning the car, the agent gazed at the be-furred seats with bemusement and said their vacuum cleaner couldn’t handle the job, but if I’d pay him $100, he’d give it a try. I took it to a carwash instead, where they cleaned it inside and out for about $20. So I paid to do the rental car agency’s job. After that, I made sure to cover up all exposed rental car seating. And now you know, too.

In the end, Operation Dog Transport went without a hitch, despite the discovery that the dogs were in fact quite huge and quite stinky. But they were also quite sweet-natured, and it was a good dog deed indeed.

*Dogs originally advertised as 85 pounds, but turned out to be more like 120+. Don’t we all lie about our weight? Just a little?

Happy birthday to me