Cats in Cars
from the Covid Chronicles*
They were clamoring to come along on my errands.
“It’s boring being stuck at home. Then on top of that it’s been quarantine since forever,” they pouted.
“Quarantine never applied to you,” I explained.
“Did too,” they argued with infuriating cat logic.
Though they wanted to drive there are limits. I arranged a shelf for them in the back seat so they could see out. It wasn’t that safe without a seat belt, but as they are raving libertarians I didn’t bother.
Enough they were about to supervise my daily rounds, without an earful about their freedoms being interfered with. I’ve lost enough sleep holding open doors while they contemplate the either/or nature of existence.
Let’s go to the bank! they cried. Oh boy, I could just picture it, weaving around old ladies they like, then watching them topple, the two events never connected, then jumping up and squeezing under the plexiglass to paw up the computers and divert funds.
“The Catman Islands,” I caught them nodding to each other in the mirror.
I heard that, I told them.
What about the park? I deflected. Lots of nice doggies to chase!
Park, shmark they sneered. Watching unintelligent creatures barge around after pointless round things? Exactly why the world is where it is, they sniffed.
All of this was said without an actual utterance, if you don’t count a diversionary little mew now and then. They ace their cover. Mind communication had been established early on.
With most cats, this only means you frequently find yourself in the kitchen by the cat food, holding a spoon. But with their extreme partisan views, these two like to have someone to sharpen their argument claws on.
Not the grocery store! I cried. I wasn’t totally blind to their ways, which was just worse.
We could carry the baskets, they offered meekly. We’ll be good. We won’t make anyone who has cats fill up their carts with tuna, they promised, sounding innocent. Ha, I thought, I’m keeping watch.
Yes we went shopping and ok, I have very little defense against them. Most of the time, or some of the time anyway, they are sweet and purry pet-things. Why not a fun little outing? (uh — for a minute there I wondered who is writing this, but they wouldn’t go that fur would they?)
At the grocery store door I handed them each a basket. In order to carry them, and reach for higher shelves, they walk on their hind feet. Most cats know how to do this but don’t because it is both ridiculous looking and slightly unbalanced, and certainly more awkward for the little tailless Manx.
But these two don’t stand for any specie-ism nonsense.
(As catankerous independents they won’t be pegged on their views. The silliness of wokeness really gets them going, since obviously when napping you won’t be. But try nabbing a stinkbug without all your wokefulness about you.)
Needless to say we stopped all the shoppers in the store, me flushed pink with a calico Manx and fluffy black boy trooping behind, primly holding their baskets.
“They’re not wearing masks,” observed one shopper rather severely. (I’d like to see them give it a go.)
True to their word, they didn’t load me up with cat delicacies nor anybody else’s basket that I could see. Or not right away. Yet when I got home my bags held about a month’s supply of sardines.
“Next time we’ll go to the nursery, get a bird fountain,” I heard them decide as they unpacked another bag I swear I hadn’t seen.
No! I called to them, then sighed a little wearily. The freedom of birds was not covered in their philosophy. As originalists, everything was original to them.
But in my heart of hearts I knew my new assignment as chauffeuse de chats wasn’t over. Neither was sardine sandwiches.
*note: as originally recorded during the plague days
