The morning started out rather normal. I hit the snooze alarm more times than I should have and was running behind by about fifteen minutes. I usually leave the house one and a half hours before I need to make the seventeen mile trip to work - just in case of bad traffic or a long line at the donut shop.
About two thousand feet into the drive down my street I heard a cat meowing. It appeared to be coming from under the hood of my car – so I stopped and popped the trunk (don’t ask). Since a neighbor saw me stop and pop the trunk I had to open the trunk and look in it. I did not find a kitty and was no longer hearing one, either. I got back into the car, started it up and began to drive. The kitty began to holler again. I went another five hundred feet or so and stopped again. This time I popped the hood and got out and looked. Nothing…and no meowing. There are about four miles of country road from my house to town and I stopped every half mile. There was no sound when I stopped, but as soon as the car would start moving the cat would begin making pitiful sounds. I called a friend who laughed his ass off and gave me no support but provided a multitude of innuendoes about ‘kitties’, although he did not use the word kitty, and told me I had no choice but to drive on. When I arrived in the metropolis of Haslet I stopped at a new home construction site and three Latinos were working on the foundation. They walked over and gave me a, “Que paso’, and I replied, ‘El Tigre de nada vamoose.” For those of you who do not speak Spanish they asked, “What’s up, good looking?” and I replied, with much gesturing, “There is a damned cat under the hood, it has been with me for ten miles, and it will not get the hell out of my engine compartment!” They were of no help, but smiled a lot (obviously impressed with my Spanish) so the cat and I drove on to the 7-11 about another mile away. People pumping gas heard the cat when I pulled up but everybody was in a hurry and no one even looked under the hood, except me. No noise erupted while the engine was off. That damned cat was playing games with me. I called my boss and told her the cat, and I, were having so much fun that I was thinking about taking it to the zoo next. I pulled out and, sure enough, the yowling began. I even changed the radio station in case it was objecting to talk radio. Nope. I spotted the fire department ahead and pulled in. They like to rescue cats, right? And they would not even have to climb a tree! I noticed as I pulled up that there were a lot of vehicles behind the station so I know there were firemen in there just ready to rescue me..uh..the cat. I opened the hood and walked around the car, patting the sides of it and talking sweetly to the kitty. Evidently, firemen can look out a window and if they see a chubby old lady hunched over and patting her car and talking to it they do not find it reason enough leave the building. I waited about twenty minutes and started to dial 911; I figured that would get somebody’s attention! Just as I hit the last 1 a Constable drove slowly by and I waved him down. He pulled up, rolled down the window, and asked, “What seems to be the problem, ma’am?” I told him there was a kitty in the engine, I could see it but could not get to it and no firefighters were in the mood to help. He rolled the window up, called his dispatcher and then laughed robustly. I rapped my knuckles on the window, he rolled it back down, grinning. I told him I knew what they were saying and had already heard all of the innuendos and did not find it funny the first time! He was still smiling as he got out of the car. Being as he looked like he enjoys doughnuts as much as I do, he could not get down and look under the car either. It would have to be jacked up for him to crawl under it. I take that back…it would have to be on a lift. We could now see a small gray kitty sitting on the frame under the engine near the left front tire. It was just sitting there and blinking at us. The Constable took a stick and poked it and it jumped to the ground and just sat there. The officer told me to start the car and slowly drive backwards; he KNEW neither one of us could reach under and grab the kitty. I told him that if I ran over the cat after all we had been through for fifteen miles (okay, I exaggerated a little about the distance) and stopping every half mile, I would hold him responsible. He said not to worry. He could tell I was agitated because my hair was standing straight up and my eyes were beginning to roll wildly. I’m hoping he did not notice the drool. As soon as the car was no longer over that sweet, baby, gray, kitty it ran into the bushes by the front door of the fire department. The Constable and I looked at each other, smiled, and quickly agreed that it was now the responsibility of the fine Haslet Fire Department. He told me he would call them and let them know about it and we drove off. I was late getting to work, and fretted over my wild hair issues; nobody messed with me. I was also exhausted. I cannot remember the last time I got in and out of my car twenty times on a single morning, unless it was that neighborhood garage sale I found in Saginaw a couple of years ago.
I sent the fire department an email. I told them who I was and thanked them for their help (not!). I suggested they name the cat Smokey.
I probably should not have signed my name.
