I have to tell a little pre-hike story, as our adventures often start before we even hit the whiteblazed trail.
Are any of you cat owners? Well, we inherited a cat. He showed up on our doorstep about a year ago. We also have two dogs. All the furkids must be kennelled whenever we travel and–since the dogs would like to have the cat for snack–we take them in two separate vehicles. Sometimes on two separate days. Our kennel is about 30 minutes away. The dogs travel pretty well in the car, and my husband took them on Thursday morning. The kennel owners are the only babysitters they’ve ever had, and they love them. No problem. Mom misses them–but I know they are safe.
And then there is the cat. The cat is a different story. Oh, I love my cat. No doubt. And he loves me. But what the cat does not love is going to the kennel. Or to the veterinarian. Or, for that matter, being transported anywhere, at any time, in a moving vehicle. I cannot get him into a little kitty transport cage, so I put him on a leash until I have him safely in the car. This is not a popular thing in and of itself–but we need to get him in the car without having him run away.
Fast forward to Friday September 11th. It is the morning we are leaving for our vacation. The dogs are safely in the kennel. We load up my husband’s vehicle with all of our equipment and my car with the cat. (My husband adamantly refuses to do the kitty transport, and wisely so).
My cat detests the car, but he does not scratch. He does not growl. He does not bite. No, no. My cat does none of these things, much to my dismay–as they seem much milder than what I know my fate will likely be once I shut my door. You see, my cat becomes digestively distressed in a vehicle. Yes, I have learned to travel with a litter box in the far back corner of the car. And my cat almost always makes it. Except for Friday. I am no more than three miles from my home, happily on my first few minutes of vacation, following my husband to the kennel, when IT happens. He does IT.
Yes, that’s right. The cat….shat. But not in his litterbox. Oh no, he was far too distressed for that. The cat shat, right on my favorite EMS windbreaker, on the seat next to me, for what seemed like an endless period of at least three hours (actually less than a minute, but you were not sitting next to him in a moving vehicle when it happened).
Yes, cat shat. Right on my jacket, right next to me. No place to pull over.
Oh. My. God. I had 25 more minutes to go, and I was gagging beyond all imagination.
I know he doesn’t do it purposely, he just has a very anxious disposition in the car. But its incredibly hard to feel sorry for a cat when your nostrils are filled with the scent of his doo-doo. We drove on, for an additional 15 minutes of eternity, until the road stopped winding long enough for me to safely pull over and discard IT. And watch my husband have a little laugh.
Uggghhh. Bad start. Somewhat of an omen, I’m afraid.
More later, on getting lost, yellow jacket stings, and a trip to the ER.
Have a good night.