Friday, December 30, 2011

Danger is His First Name

Disclaimer: If you are a Humane Society activist, celebrate your pets' birthdays, own clothing for your pets or believe that animals need therapy (I was once told my turtle was depressed), stop reading now and I'll see you back here tomorrow, mmm-kay?

Not exactly a pet shop trip, several weeks ago we went to visit our friends at A Mother's Wish Foundation with a pet carrier in hand. They wanted to give us a kitten. And most of us (read: Rebecca dislikes cats) wanted one. We arrived, spent a lovely time helping out at the preschool and then headed to lunch. A tall, young man in muddy rubber boots and a rain slicker showed up holding an empty, old potato sack. I suddenly felt a little silly to have brought a pet carrier. Alongside him, at 4'11" and 98 pounds stood an aged gentleman with a few teeth and the same muddy rubber boots. To combat the cold weather, however, he wore an over-sized sweatshirt, bold letters across his chest read: HOOTERS. Awesome. Diego, the CatGifter, had a hushed conversation with them and they dispersed.
As we finished up our lunch, PotatoSackMan and OldHooters came walking up the path, grinning wildly to the theme song of a potato sack that was part growl-meowing, part begging for mercy. Then, they took it a step further. Since we had brought a pet carrier, the logical next step to completion of their task was to get a sufficiently pissed off kitten from the potato sack into the carrier. To be fair, we must consider where PotatoSackMan and OldHooters were coming from. A pet carrier costs the same amount that they likely make in two or three weeks. And they don't have desk jobs. Cruelty to animals like this one is a #firstworldproblem.
Once they figured out how to open the carrier, they put it on its end, with the door facing the sky. Potato sack was turned upside down and shaken vigorously over the carrier. Turns out, kitten didn't want any more trauma. He dug his claws into that bag, screaming and holding on for dear life. Which made PotatoSackMan shake all the more. As I stood, mouth ajar, watching the spectacle, all I could think was Samantha and Kelsey* would not approve of this. It only took 12 minutes. PissedOffKitten dropped into the carrier with a thump, door shut and carrier was flipped to its upright position. He was officially ours.
Just keep shoving and shaking. He'll come out sooner or later.

Success.
Max downs a cup of coffee while we wait for a guagua. Bringing PissedOffCat home.
PissedOffKitten remained so right up through us dropping him off at the vet on the way home. He needed his shots before he was allowed in our house. It was a Friday. We boarded him for the weekend. The professionals could take this one. On Monday, we forgot we had a cat. A great start.
When he finally came home to us Tuesday, we gave him a few days cool down time in John's room (read: the tiny room next to the kitchen built for a live in maid). One or two of us at a time would visit him, slowly introducing him to the fam.
Max & Zora duked it out over a name for PissedOffKitten, who by this point was more just WaryOfHumansKitten. Max wanted to call him "Alex or Danger" and Zora was set on "Lili". I have no idea how their conversation went, but I imagine bribes were involved and our cat is now called Danger.
Turns out, he's a pretty great family cat. No, I'm not converting to the dark side of cat-lovers, but I can see that the kids love him and he doesn't attack them. That's all I ask. Even little Ami picks him up without a problem. He's playful, purrs often and kills cockroaches. Did I mention he sleeps spread eagle on his back? Keeper.
Zora is obsessed. Or, she really loves him A LOT.

*Samantha and Kelsey are two of my dear sisters-in-law who both happen to work with cats. Cat lovers, one might say. Hopefully, they stopped reading after the disclaimer.

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