Wednesday, September 26, 2018
For Madi. A blog from September 18, 2018 Called Good Kitties
Today, when Pocket and I went to get the mail, only to find out that
we had none (sigh), we saw a handwritten note taped to the community
board. "Last Cat: If found return to Unit 20."
I thought of Boots and his adventures and wondered if the cat had
jumped on my windowsill and copied my download codes. Then I studied
the note carefully. "Lost Cat." Could they have been any vaguer?
Perhaps: "Missing Mammal" or "Misplaced Carbon Based Unit." Could
they post a picture of the kitty? Or at least a description?
Pocket doesn't scrutinize events the way I do. She just wanted to
find the kitty and reunite it with its Mom. "But Pocket, we don't
know which kitty it is!" I pleaded.
But you can't talk to a dog with a diaper on her butt, and she was
off. A few minutes later she returned with a baby chipmunk.
"That's not a cat," I said folding my paws across my chest.
"Vit vight vee," Pocket said holding the chipmunk in her mouth. The
chipmunk, meanwhile, was professing her innocence, stating that while
she may have moved the squirrels nuts, she did not lick them.
Pocket went running to the woman's door. I followed. Pocket scratched
on it until she answered. "I found your kitty," Pocket said as she
dropped it on the ground.
"That's a chipmunk," the woman said.
"Oh," Pocket said scratching her head. "Sorry, you can go," Pocket
said, nosing the chipmunk-like she does the ball when she wants
someone to throw it.
The chipmunk took several steps away, stopped, and shook her butt at
Pocket. I growled at the brash rodent. Only I get to butt shake
"We'd like to help you find your kitty," I said. "Maybe you can give
us a description, or give us something to smell."
"You two aren't scent dogs," the woman said.
"You have never stood downwind from Pocket," I told her. I asked her
for a picture, and she said she didn't have one. My gosh, was this cat
her pet or was she just renting her a room? I asked for a
"She's white and gray," the woman said. It was like saying she lost
an old white man in Congress. I told the woman I would keep my eyes
open. I then walked away, ready to climb on my blanket and nap
through the day.
But at three years of age, I must admit Pocket has learned. She cut me
off. "You know where the kitty is," Pocket said.
"Leave it alone Pocket, we don't need to get involved," I said.
I watched Pocket heading to the wall on the other side of the street, and I knew she didn't pay attention when she crossed the road. I ran up to her, took her by the paw and helped her across the road.
As many of you have commented Pocket, and I are too tiny to scale a wall. "We could just go around it," Pocket said. We just went around it.
And where did we emerge? Was it on the island with Ben and Hurley? In the Emerald City from the Wizard of Oz? To some, but to us it was just the state mental institution.
Now don't go jumping to conclusions. The kitty hadn't gone crazy. The kitty had gone wild.
At the State Mental Institution, they were called feral cats. These are bad cats. The kind of cats who knock over cigarette trucks and sell the cartons on the cheap. The kind that runs shines out of the back of the old maintenance building. The kind that doesn't get spade. The kind that stays in heat so long the eventually go poof in an orange ball of flame on a hot summer day. The kind that calls themselves "Good Kitties" like " this is Snowball, she's a good kitty." The kind no Yorike goes near.
But Pocket is not just any Yorkie. She's nuts. The maintenance men, long ago, guys with names like Sid and Ike, began leaving food and water for the stray cats on the site, in old maintenance shed. Soon the maintenance men abandoned that shed. But the kitties did not. And although all those old maintenance men were long gone, someone still feeds those kitties. Some told tale of the ghost of Sid filling the kitties' bowls every morning. Then again this is the state mental institution so let's not get carried away.
Pocket saw two kitties, leaning up against the old maintenance shed, smoking Lucky Strikes, and spinning a mouse on a rotisserie over a fire. I shouted at her to wait, but she began to run towards them. Really? What is it with her and all the running? She ran right up to the cats. She asked if she could go inside and look for a friend. "I could be your friend, Buttercup," one of the kitty toughs said. "But you're not white and gray," Pocket answered.
I walked up to them and said I wanted to go in. They asked me what the password was. "Swordfish," I answered. They stepped aside.
"How did you know that?" Pocket asked.
"The password is always swordfish," I said.
"Well what 's the point of that?" she asked.
"Look Pocket, we're in, stop over analyzing this to death."
We entered the room. There were several playing pools. Some were licking catnip right off the bar. Several others were enjoying their own private parts. I know, we all do it, but in public? Unprofessional. Pocket was ignoring it all; She saw the brown and white kitty being given a big bowl of milk by two rough looking kitties and hurried over to her.
Fearless, or senseless, Pocket ran right up to the kitty and told her that her Mommy missed her and she had to return home.
"Buzz off hairball," one of the older cats said. "This here is our prag, and you are getting in way over your head."
"Yeah," the kitty said. "You go back and tell my Mommy I'm never coming back. I'm sick of her stupid rules. Don't get on the couch. Pee in the litter box. Stay off the bed. I don't like rules."
I sauntered next to Pocket. "Maybe we should leave her alone. Her Mom seems like a bitch." But Pocket insisted that the kitty belonged with its Mom.
A fat cat wandered over and told us it would be best if we leave, but Pocket insisted the kitty come with us. Then I saw one cat who had been eyeballing me. He walked over, spat some hair out at my paws and told me he remembered me. "Five years ago you chased me up a tree, and I got stuck there for a week. The fire department had to come to rescue me. I was humiliated. And now you dare to show your face in here."
"That wasn't me," I said. "I had a sister who looked like me. Bad dog."
"No that was you, Foley," Pocket said. "I remember you telling me about it and laughing."
"I think it's time you have chased up a tree," he said, and the kitties surrounded us.
We were in deep Vick now. I knew we shouldn't have gone over the wall. Then we heard the squawking. The Canadian Geese Police had arrived.
I told Pocket to head for the door, but she grabbed the kitty in her mouth. We ran for the door, got outside with the scrambling cats and pecking police, broke away from them, went around the wall, and returned the kitty home. We brought the kitty into the house and told the woman to let the kitty on the couch, the bed, and to let her pee where she wanted. "But this isn't even my kitty!' she said.
"It sure as shit is now!" I yelled.
Pocket and I ran hard towards our doggy door and hit it hard before we realized we didn't have one. Ouch. We climbed in through the window.
We both sat down on the couch breathing hard. Pocket looked at me. "There's one thing I don 't understand," she said. "Why was the Canadian Geese police?" she asked.
I put my paw on her shoulder. "Because sometimes Pocket you just need to find your way out of your blog."
"No, it's like Boots, we need to save this kitty like Boots was saved.
And you know where the kitty went, she went over the wall."
"Listen to me Pocket, we have this place on the market, we could move
soon, and then we would never have to worry about what's on the other
side of the wall again," I said.
She turned. "I'm going. I'm going over the wall to save the kitty."
"No Pocket, no, not over the wall." But she didn't listen. She
walked towards the wall. I couldn't let her go alone. But I couldn't
go over the wall again either.
I knew what I had to do.
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