Why It's Not Good to Tweak the Normal Course of Things

The Funasaurus went to Vegas for a major portion of last week. Which left me at home, with too much time on my hands, with the kitties. At first, all seemed normal, and then I got bored. And wanted someone to talk to. So Sugar and I started having lively conversations, and while her vocabulary is not really that large, I really think she GETS me. There was the, “I'm lonely without The Funasaurus, too,” meow, the, “Girl, please, those pants would make a walking stick's butt look big, take them off now before you embarrass me” meow, and the, “enough yammering, get me some kitty treats, already, bi-yatch,” meow.

Meanwhile, Tatum took to curling up with me in the most rediculously cute positions EVER, (most of which were some variation on the little-paw-covering-face-with-butt-sticking up-in-the-air position) and so when I decided to go up and spend the day at my parents (read: dutiful daughter + need some help doing my taxes, Dad) I decided to take the little hell minions with me.

Oh, that may have not been the best choice. My parents were a little skeptical, not being huge animal people. “Are you sure they're well behaved?”

“Of course, they are, mom, they're perfect little angels. Hang on a sec., I need to get Tatum off of our curtains, his paws are still coated in poopy litter.”

So with that rousing endorsement, I loaded them up in the kitty carriers, warmed up my car just-so, and off we went, to the mountains. Wherein Tatum began his Very Loud Monologue on why I was the most awful person pretty much EVER.

Meow and SOB.

I was almost in tears, he sounded so pitiful, then he took a little break, and I looked over in time to see him roll onto his back in his carrier, do a BIG stre-e-e-t-c-h like he was on our bed at home, and then catch me looking at him and screech “ME-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-W!” lest I had forgot he was Not Happy At All.

So we made it up to my parents' place, I let the cats out, they began exploring, and my mom and I took off to go meet with a florist. (Who turned out to be a weird, flower Nazi, and not at all what you'd expect when you picture a florist, but she seemed to know her stuff, so I let it go when she said, “This consultation is free. If you want to meet with me again, I need money.”) We got back about an hour and a half later, and, after waiting for an extra five minutes at the top of my driveway for a couple of St. Bernards to scamper past, obviously happy at their recent break for freedom and looking like they could eat my little Civic in one gulp if I interfered with their dart towards wherever-the-winds-may-take-them, we came inside, and I asked my dad if the cats had behaved themselves.

“Well, now that you mention it, Sugar's been exploring all around, but I don't think I've seen Tatum since you left.”

?

“You don't think... you don't think he snuck outside, do you?” asked my mom, worriedly.

“No, no, Tatum doesn't really DO the outdoors. He's more of a warm heating vent-type kitty,” I replied, with more conviction than I felt. “I'm sure he's just hiding,” I added, as I crammed my body under their couch, reaching around desperately.

“Should we take a look at those taxes?” asked my dad, who had followed me down to the basement, where I was unpacking boxes that haven't been opened since they moved, lest Tatum had somehow managed to crawl into them and reseal the packing tape across the top, behind him.

I finally went upstairs, trying to act casual, but panicking on the inside. Lord, help me, but if I had tormented that cat with a car ride only to lead him to a grizzly death either by garage door smooshing or freezing long enough to become a St. Bernard popcicle, I would never forgive myself.

Taxes went o.k., I ended up owing the government money, despite all the recent unemployment (hopefully that'll come in to play NEXT year) but it was small change, so it wasn't a big deal. Dad got a phone call, so I went back to hunting for Tatum. I did the, “Here kitty kitty! I have TREATS!” call, shaking the bag, which worked Sugar into a frenzy, seeing as how she was there and STOP TEASING ME, ALREADY! And then I did the, “I have a mouse toy!” whistle, that The Funasaurus normally does, which usually gets Tatum dancing like a Cirque du Soleil tryout.

Nothing.

I tore my parents closet apart, hoping he was snoozing amongst the decidedly-70s-ish ski sweaters. No Tatum. I went through their magazine drawers, hoping he was learning how to Cook Lite, and I checked behind all of the electronics in the media area, including the VCR, but no Tatum.

I was debating starting a man-hunt down the mountain, when I decided to peruse the basement one last time. There was one chair I had skipped over in the corner, which was covered in a sheet to keep it from getting sun damage. Underneath, curled up in a corner of the sheet that he had created into his own little nest, was a snoozing Tatum. I unceremoniously woke him up and hugged him, and he was all, “Yawn, I was so not interested in coming out.” But then I fed him enough kitty treats to make him sick, and then loaded him back in the carrier for the long trip home, which he did not like any more than the long trip up, No SIR, and YOWL! But I did not care, for he was not dead. Just slightly gassy from all the gourmet treats.

We survived, and the kitties only looked a little worse for wear, which was slightly better than The Funasaurus who came home the following night smelling of cheap cigarettes and long island ice tea sweat, and snorking right and left due to a raging sinus infection, having had a blast betting on March Madness with the boys. Now our little family is whole, again, even if we're a little crustier than last week.

Phew.