bike accident

Into my boring, humdrum, non-newsworthy life entered an event which finally qualifies for family news. (That's my justification, subtly given, for writing so seldomly.)

To give you a hint, I'm hunting and pecking with 1 finger as I write this...

We have been stalked by a cat for about a year now, maybe longer. Said cat sneaks in through any window left open (or the back door) and quickly and sneakily makes her way to the kitchen. Why the kitchen? The obvious answer is any food left accessible -- butter on a plate the night before is half gone in the morning, bread wrapped in plastic is ripped open and partially eaten, garbage bags are ripped out and artistically spread over the room, etc. But the real answer is the chair ... my chair ... which sits in the corner of the kitchen. This chair is overstuffed and highly comfortable, except for the slight ammonia smell that wafts from it periodically and (blessedly rarely) wafts quite strongly. Did I mention that this chair that the cat has chosen for her sleeping place of choice is MY chair? The cat has to go.

[I've figured out a way to prop pillows such that I can touch type again.]

Ever try to catch a wild cat? They are trained in every trick in the book. I imagine a feline version of 'M' and 'Q' dispensing feline wisdom ("never trust anyone!") and concocting escape routes worthy of Mr. Bond. ("A few licks of butter on my bread crumbs, shaken, not stirred"). Suffice it to say my efforts to catch this feline 007 were all to naught.

Once she knocked something over in the kitchen and woke me up. I managed to get in the kitchen and get all the windows and the door shut. Whereupon we entered into The Chase. The cat became increasingly desperate and in her efforts to escape withdrew control over certain bodily functions to transfer energy to miraculous leaps and accelerations which approached many G's. The wafts of ammonia were getting strong enough to be nearly visible and somewhat eye-stinging before I finally caught her (bravely protected by the oven mitt). At 3am in the morning with many scratches it was determined that a long bike ride for relocation was last on my list of priorities. And, good-hearted chap that I am, I did not undertake the more expeditious solution of the rain barrel. (Why is it the good guys always take mercy on the bad guys? They *know* the movie can't end until the bad guy gets his come-uppance!) On pain of bodily dismemberment I extracted an honorable oath that she would never again enter our abode.

I have discovered felines are not an honorable species.

This highly unwelcome guest had a kitten about 4 months ago and we were all entranced by the sheer cuteness. The 2 would tumble and wrestle all over our garden. Really fun to watch. However, nursing mother needs her nutrition and her periodic visits to our kitchen (dishonorable though they may have been) became much more regular, at the same time that we desperately needed to leave windows open to get a breeze from the cool night air. But what do you do with a nursing mother? Any final solutions seem simply too cruel (not "final" *that* way! I'm talking relocation!)

[Unfortunately the backspace is still just out of reach of the pillow propped hand. I had no idea I used the backspace key so often...]

But when the kitten got old enough we determined that a JOINT relocation would not be inhumane. Catching a "teenage" kitten is not difficult -- I did it several times just to play with it (the spy training doesn't get serious until about 6 months, apparently). But still the mother eluded me.

If you had stopped by the house a few weeks ago (as several Albanians did, much to their amusement) you would have seen 2 American children sitting quietly on the porch throughout the entire afternoon holding onto a long rope attached to a piece of wood holding up a large plastic container. They had a watch which looked suspiciously like their father's and it periodically beeped prompting a surreptitious changing of the guard. A closer inspection would have revealed a bowl of meat under the Tupperware. Eventually the feline Bond strutted along the top of the wall with Bond Jr and they both hopped down into our garden on Joshua's watch. With admirable patience and reserve he waited as instructed until both mother and baby were completely underneath the plastic container and then gave a sharp yank on the rope.

IT WORKED! He came running inside to inform the mastermind behind the plan that all was well and that they were both trapped. I went outside and confirmed before rewarding my assistant. Then I went inside to get some kind of container (suitcase? Bag?) suitable for relocation. Meanwhile my assistant reported that Mr. Mastermind had not effectively researched the strength of a medium-sized cat high on adrenaline - the cat in desperation had attacked the Tupperware container (this is a big 38-gallon container, mind you, not some little thing -- perhaps 'Q' had given a fake claw that explodes to move large objects?) and moved it far enough to expose a gap underneath and Bond/Houdini had escaped. I still had the kitten, but it just wasn't good enough.

From elation to despair. The nocturnal visits continued and the wafting continued. Desperation increased.

So today I was sitting inside looking out the window when I saw my nemesis prancing across the back veranda. Helpless before such spy expertise I could only watch in frustration as she jumped onto the wall. But even Bond makes mistakes. As she sat with her back to our veranda she allowed her attention to be attracted by what? A bird? A mouse? A blowing leaf? Whatever it was, her flicking tail betrayed her total concentration on something else long enough for me to sneak out and grab her from behind.

[Amy Willaford, please skip this next part. If you choose to read it you must promise that you will still speak to me afterwards and not disown me entirely. You must also promise not to report me to the SPCA.]

"From behind" can be translated accurately into the colloquial as "by the tail". Some of you may know that I have a long and somewhat dishonorable tradition of cat-tail-pulling. Well, this was the ultimate in cat-tail-pulling, and I am saying that as an expert in the field. (Remember, I was desperate -- THINK OF THE CHAIR!) The struggle was titanic. Whenever she was lowered or moved within reach of any surface she could find traction on she would launch a horrendous attack against me (I can show you my legs which were protected by thick jeans as evidence). Melodye came running and covered my other hand with a canvas bag and I utilized the Spock grip on the neck and, as is so common with cats, she was rendered helpless. Well, mostly helpless. Enough that I could slip her into another bag and close it up. Seeing that she was simply outmatched by my extensive anti-feline training with homeland security, she settled into the ride. Unbeknownst to me she had a cell phone concealed somewhere -- perhaps her shoe? She called in the big guns as I pedaled miles and miles from home, gently holding the bag but determinedly keeping the top of the bag shut...

[Amy, you can pick up here again. Magically the cat has been placed in a comfortable transportation device and is being gently moved to a more comfortable environment.]

So I pedal and pedal and pedal. Each time I think about stopping and letting her go I remember "The Fantastic Journey" and figure another 10 minutes won't hurt. The Feline Bond kept track (miniature camera?) of our process and coordinated her human accomplices in an attack which took place on a carefully planned section of road where she knew I would be proceeding at top speed.

On a precisely timed counterattack ("synchronize your watches on my signal") the human female accomplice stepped off the sidewalk about 4 feet in front of me. Lulled into a false sense of security I simply didn't expect it. Two quick yells (in proper Albanian grammar, you'll be pleased to know), a desperate swerve, a soft thump, and then it all gets confusing. A desperate attempt to not hit the lady, a desperate attempt to shield the cat (WHY?! Sheer stupidity disguised in a soft heart), a short flight and a throbbing, sprained shoulder.

And the cat made good her escape. Last seen trotting in the direction AWAY from our house, which was a very good thing.

Melodye came and picked me up in the car and took me to Guy who pronounced it would be OK either in 4-5 days or 4-5 weeks. I'm voting for the former. Meanwhile I'm going through a quick anatomy lesson which focuses on how often we use our shoulders. I can't sit up, lay down, walk around, move my LEFT arm (it was my right that was hurt) or do anything except lay in just the right position on my left side or else I am aware of something between significant discomfort (sitting) to sharp flashes of quite blinding pain. (Confession: I'm not big into pain. What I call blinding pain probably is what others would refer to as something considerably less.)

So now all is revealed. The asymmetric slope to my shoulders as I sit here, the strangely placed pillows, the sling, and frequent jumps of my left hand all the way over the right side of the keyboard to hit an arrow key or the backspace.

But that's not the worst of it. Shoulders heal. My poor phone/PDA broke.

So tonight when I was sitting here in my sling nursing my wounds I hear Melodye coordinating a joint attack of the 2 older boys on a rather large rat that had poked his head into our garden. Sounds like we need a cat, huh?