Sunday, October 22, 2006


“Ohhh! Golden Boy?” “He Didn’t Make It.” What TV Show?

I may have mentioned previously time that we were going to be moving. There may have been a tiny rant about Comcast, and how crappy they are. Maybe I’ll get to that later. For now, we’re on DSL. Took about three business days to get set up. Unlike the 24 days Comcast said they needed. I still hate them. I may have even said before that only the higher ups should be sent directly to hell. Well the lower downs didn’t exactly distinguish themselves either.

That’s all for another day. The moving process went fairly well. Ye icon Lord Floppington got into the crate ok, yowled a little on the ride, and was happy to get out again at our new destination. Princess Candy did her 1,000 yard stare routine and took a couple of days to get used to her new surroundings. The Duchess rode ok, and got used to things ok. And then there’s Queenie.

Queenie was Miss Tori’s cat. Not originally. If we cast our minds back a few years, I’ll tell you the whole story. Queenie lived out on her own, without an owner. She got pregnant, and a nice lesbian living in an apartment helped her out a little. She started taking care of Queenie, and eventually, Queenie became hers.

Then the day came when the Nice Lesbian was moving. Unfortunately, the wildness never quite left Queenie, and the little tabby with the small head and the dragging white belly would not be picked up to be taken somewhere else. She wouldn’t even come in. Nice Lesbian moved out, and Miss Tori moved in.

Miss Tori noticed a cat hanging around after she moved in. It was that same little tabby with the small head and the low belly. And shortly after moving in, Nice Lesbian dropped by with some food for the cat. She explained that she never could catch it. Duly adopted, Queenie became Miss Tori’s cat.

When Miss Tori was ready to move, the Queenie dilemma reared its ugly head. How can this cat be moved? Queenie wouldn’t even allow herself to be picked up without going all ninja claw on the picker. Miss Tori borrowed a trap, and stuck Queenie in a room with the trap and no food. Queenie fell for it, and Queenie and the trap were taken to the new abode. Queenie thrived, as was her custom.

She became an indoor cat. She lived indoors quite happily, and never really made a run for the door, like Lord Floppington will do from time to time now that he’s an indoor cat. She was happy to live inside, sleeping in her favorite bed.

When she wasn’t there, she was sleeping on the sofa

on her favorite cushion.

Sometimes, she'd even play around in the big plant.

Time passed. Then Miss Tori was ready to move again.

Queenie was more wary this time. She didn’t forget the trap. When she got stuck in a room with it this time, she wouldn’t go in. The only food was in the trap, and she wouldn’t go in. She didn’t go in the first day. She wouldn’t go in the second day. She still wouldn’t go in on the third day. Miss Tori ended up going in to sit with her. Queenie was all loving and rubbing all over Miss Tori. It’s like she was wondering what she had done wrong. And Miss Tori was sitting right next to the trap, and she shoved Queenie in. Queenie wasn’t sharp enough or strong enough to resist, and she was trapped. We drove her over to the next apartment.

Queenie was let out of the trap, ate some food, drank some water, and just loved the heck out of Miss Tori. When I started going over to hang out with Miss Tori, Queenie would always run and hide. That was just her usual pattern when people came over. After a few visits, she wouldn’t run and hide. After a few more visits, she loved getting petted by me too.

We’d sit on the couch, Miss Tori and I. I’d be on the right, with Miss Tori to my left. The Queenie would come walking along the back of the couch, behind my shoulders, down the cushion on my right, and sort of wedge herself in there, a little warm ball of tabby fuzz with a too small head and that low, white belly.

If you’d pet her just right, she’d be very content. She’d nuzzle in and purr. And when she was really happy, Queenie would drool. You heard me. She’d drool. If you caught her at just the right moment, you’d see the little drop of drool, right on the tip of her chin. Queenie was certainly the first drooling cat I ever saw, or even heard of.

Of course, if you didn’t catch her at just the right moment, you’d first notice the drool when you felt a cold wet spot on your arm or leg. Even worse, sometimes she’d shake her head and the drops would fly. It was frustrating. It was gross. It was love.

Miss Tori, the Duchess and Queenie lived there for about fifteen months. I lived there for the last four, while we sold my place and looked for a new home. In all that time, Queenie never made a run for the door. She was content and happy to live inside.

Now we’re up to the big move. We’re not just moving to another place in the same ghetto town we’ve been living in. We’re getting out to the tune of about twenty-five miles. We’re moving off to our dream home.

We got the other cats moved. Miss Tori warned me that Queenie was not like other cats. I did not believe her. Queenie was my friend. Queenie drooled on me! That cat loved me, and I loved her. I’ll get her in the kitty carrier no problem. Several scratches on the arms, and a nice forehead gash later, I had to admit that Miss Tori was right, as usual.

Queenie is no normal cat. The wild never got out of her, even after a few years of living indoors. We stuck her in the room with the trap. And we waited. On the second day, I went in. She was all loving and rubbing up all over me. I pet her and cooed to her and called her all the soft names you use when you whisper to a beloved pet. When I saw my chance, I tried to shove her in. She didn’t go for it.

Miss Tori went in on the third day. Queenie was all loving and rubbing. When the moment came, Miss Tori got Queenie shoved in. We quickly trundled her down to the car and began the drive to the new house.

Surely, once again, she was wondering what she had done so wrong to be put through this. She mewled all the way there and she bolted out of the cage as soon as we got her in. Couldn’t she understand that we loved her and didn’t want to lose her? We wanted it to be as painless as possible, but she made it impossible. She couldn’t be held, couldn’t be caged, and we had no other options. It was one of those rare occasions where you could say, “This hurts me more than it hurts you,” and actually mean it. We agonized over it in the days leading up to it.

She stayed at the new house with the other cats for three more days. We would come up and feed them and spend time with them. She was as loving as ever. Almost as soon as the ordeal was over, she was over it and back to normal. Miss Tori was right about that too.

On moving day, I stayed with the movers while Miss Tori went ahead to the house. She had to lock the cats in a closet so we wouldn’t have to worry about them getting out. You can’t really ask the movers to open and shut the door each time they come in and out. Three of the cats made it into the bedroom closet. They were docile enough for that.

Queenie wouldn’t go for it. Miss Tori had to chase her up and down the house again to get hold of her and shove her into the closet under the stairs. The movers came in and out, carrying this and that, and they left the doors open as they did. They even took some patio furniture right through the house, around the stairs, into the kitchen, and out to the back patio.

When they were done, we closed the front door. We closed the garage door. We closed the door from the house to the garage. We didn’t want the running around out there, getting used to being out there. We didn’t want to one day forget they were in the garage and open the big door and have them out in the wild. From where we were standing, the closet under the stairs with Queenie was first, then we could continue back to the bedroom and let out the other three.

Miss Tori opened the door to the closet under the stairs. Queenie could have run right, toward the back of the house, to the bedroom and the other cats, or left, through the living room and to the kitchen.

I don’t know why she chose the direction she did. I don’t know why she picked left. I don’t know why she ran through the living room. I don’t know why she ran through the kitchen. I don’t know why she ran right out the open sliding door, right past the patio furniture, right out of our lives. All she left behins was a little fur.

The other cats made it through the move ok. Queenie? She didn’t make it.

She started her life as an outdoor cat for at least a couple of years. We’ve got a lot of farmland and wilderness areas around here. She has a chance of taking care of herself. Still, we put out a little dish of food and water in the backyard, just in case. We’ve seen a few other cats out there, but not Queenie, not yet.

And we drive by the old apartment once in a while after work, looking to see if she’s around. And the place before that. And the place before that. Just in case. Just on the off chance that she wandered through all the wilderness and back to one of the old homes. Of course, even if we did find her, how would we catch her? We couldn’t get hold of her to save our own lives, let alone hers.

Still, we drive by.

Just in case.

Thursday, October 19, 2006


At Least I Didn't Forget The Password

So what's been happening anyway?

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