A Hellride

Not all of this weekend was taken up by my reminiscing on the anniversary that passed yesterday. Mags and I also moved our household back from house sitting for my folks. This, of course, entailed packing up all of our own junk that we had brought and getting the animals ready to go.

Sunday morning, after breakfast, I cautioned Mags to get the cats closed up in a room before we even though about bringing the carriers in. (I don’t know how they do it, but the cats KNOW when they’re going to be going into their carriers.) So, the first order of business, before anything was packed, before any move was made to get moving, was to corral the cats in the sunroom. Annie, the oldest, and Sasha, the youngest, proved to be no difficulty at all. Stinker, the middle cat, was nowhere to be found.

Three hours of fruitless searching later, it was decided that we would leave her there and pick her up after she had come out of wherever she had decided to secrete herself. (Stinker is, indeed, the hide and seek champion. I’ve seen her run into an empty room and when the lights were turned on, she wasn’t there. I suspect I have a cat that can indeed walk through walls.) So, rather than starting on the hour-long trip to get home around 10, we didn’t end up leaving until almost 1:30.

We got everyone home mostly in one piece, and managed to get everything packed. Mags was puttering around, glad to be back in her house, and I went to lie down for a bit, as the cold I’ve been fighting for the past week was acting up again and I was totally worn out. About an hour later, Dad called. The prodigal had come out from her hiding place inside the box spring on one of the beds! So, I had to wake myself up, take another dose of Dayquil, and head back to pick up the cat.

I spent the time on the drive enjoying some of the music I had copied from Dad’s collection. The Chieftain’s “Sake in the Jar” is just wrong. Funny, but wrong nonetheless. I picked up Stinker, managed to get her packed into the car, and turned around for the hour drive back to home. That’s when I discovered that she had picked up a new trick.

It started almost as soon as I pulled out of my parent’s driveway, a high-pitched, loud caterwauling that set my teeth on edge. I pulled over immediately to see what was hurting her. Looking into the carrier, I saw an indistinct black lump huddled in the back. Two piercing green eyes glared balefully at me from over what seemed like an oversized pink mouth filled with an impossible number of very white teeth. (It’s good to know the anti-tartar treats we’re giving her are doing the job.) Stinker, seeing she had attracted my attention, redoubled her efforts and, amazingly, began to produce even more noise. She appeared unhurt, just pissed, so I set off again.

In an attempt to counteract the noise, which was cutting into my brain like a hot ice pick, I turned the music up. Stinker got louder. I turned the music up again. She got louder still. This process repeated until I finally had the stereo playing at nearly full blast. Stinker just couldn’t keep up with that. Then she changed tactics on me.

The stench hit me in an almost visible wave. They say cat farts can bleach wood. This was truly foul, even given that standard. Even though my nose was blocked, my eyes began to water. Gagging, I rolled down all the windows in the car. It must have been some sight indeed for the outside observer. A white Malibu screaming down the round to the blaring sound of massed pipes and drums, with an ever-present wailing underneath. At this point, Stinker’s cries had taken on the tone of a baby in distress. I’m just surprised that the police didn’t pull me over on general suspicion of being up to no good.

Finally, the highland bagpipes had played all the way through, and I popped in Tom Paxton’s “Politics (Live).” Most of the songs were old favorites, from the hilarious “I Don’t Want a Bunny-Wunny (In My Littl’ Wo Boat)” to the ultra powerful tearjerker “Jimmy Newman.” (One of the, if not the, most powerful and chilling songs I have ever heard.) Then, I found the true gem. “When Princes Meet.” After the first playing, I hit the back button to hear the song again. And again. Then I just put the song on repeat so I could learn the tune. I’ve decided that this is one of those songs that I just have to perform the next opportunity I get.

When princes meet the poor little men must tremble.
In judgment seat,
They speak of their wars while great armies assemble.
Their armor shines to shame the sun
They move like gods they do resemble
All bow their necks to iron feet when princes meet

God save the king!
For he grants us leave to serve him.
His praises sing! And grant that we may deserve him.
Who counts the cost? The cattle and men to be lost?
'Tis no small thing to serve a king

Finally, after one of the longest hours of my life, I got home and managed to get the miscreant unpacked. Two Tylenol and a couple of minutes later, I was actually starting to feel human again.