Hot Cranky People

My parents belong to a neighborhood e-mail list.

Mom forwards me the good ones. Most of these are about animals. Animals people have lost, in this quiet residential neighborhood.

For example, earlier this year there was a lynx on the loose. Yes, a lynx. Apparently someone in the neighborhood breeds exotic cats. Go figure. Luckily, it was apprehended:

“On Monday an alert neighbor in the XYZ Drive area spotted the elusive lynx and called the police. A neighbor on XYZ Hills Court also spotted the cat and called the owner. The neighborhood security patrol officer, along with Atlanta police and a security officer from a nearby neighborhood searched the area but did not find him. The owner arrived and set a trap (cage) with chicken parts as bait. When he checked the cage on Tuesday, the lynx was there. We can all breathe a little easier now that this animal is back home. Let’s hope he stays there!”

My next favorite was this tale of a llama on the loose:

Every time I go to the local pet supply place, I feel like I’m in a low-budget independent film. Without fail, I will encounter something odd, or have/overhear a strange conversation with an employee there.

Like on Valentine’s Day when I asked the checkout woman how she was, and she launched into a monologue about how her ex-boyfriend had given her this necklace, the kind with half a heart, and how he kept the other half, and did that mean he wanted to get back together?

Or the customer demanding to see the manager and saying as he headed off to the aquarium department, “Well, when he gets in tell him I’m over in the seafood aisle.”

Well, today I was perusing the cat dental care aisle, when I noticed the woman a few yards down was wrestling with a two piece litterbox. She seemed to be having difficulty removing the top part. I pretended not to notice, not wanting to make her uncomfortable. After a minute or so, she muttered, “I guess I’m just mechanically challenged today”. So I offered her some help.

“Do you need some help with that?” I wandered over and looked at what she was doing, and saw that the two pieces were tied together with one of those plastic things you have to cut off. Duh, of course it doesn’t come apart.

“Well, I’m not sure. I have one cat who looks exactly like this.” She pointed at the picture of a white cat on a litter box label. “She’s about 10 pounds. I have another one who is small. I mean, he was supposed to get bigger, that’s what the vet said. Oh well, $500 later, what are you gonna do? And I have a Himalayan.”

So…what did all of this have to do with getting those two plastice pieces apart? At this point I realized I was in trouble. She continued.

“So anyway they crap a lot. And I’m confused about liners, and filters, and all of this.”

I asked her how many litter boxes she had, for these three cats, and if she used scoop or clay litter.

“One. And I use the scoop kind. They are very particular about the smell, you know, they only like the scoop kind.”

I’m still not sure what she was asking me, so I tried to sum up. “Perhaps you should consider getting a second box? My vet recommends at least one box for each cat in the household.”

“Oh, I’m going to get two new boxes today. Hmm. The big one wouldn’t even fit in here. What’s the difference between the liners? Where do the filters go?”

Sigh. She pointed to 7 or 8 items on the rack and asked me what they are for. What’s that? Where does that go? What size? I’m finding it hard to belive at this point that this woman has ever had a cat. But she has three. I explained you didn’t need to use a liner with the scoop litter, and the the filters fit into the little grid thing on the litter box hoods. I explain the liners are really just like little garbage bags, and I see on her face that it finally sinks in.

And then she says, with concern in her voice…

“Oh. My son is terrified of bags.”

What? What on earth?

“Yeah, I used them to teach him not to climb on the counter. You know, I would crinkle them.”

So now she’s gone from crazy cat lady to just plain crazy lady. Did it not occur to her that instilling a fear of bags into her child might cause a problem or two down the road? Crazy lady asks Billy to please take out the trash. Billy screams AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAGGGH NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! and collapses in a quivering puddle of fear.

At this point I decided I was done and had to get away. “So…good luck with…everything”, grabbed my jug of litter, and bolted.

Now, at this point I was thinking what a great story this was. So I came home and started telling it to some friends. It wasn’t until I said it all out loud that I realized she must have said something like, “Oh. This one is terrified of bags.”

A cat. Not a son. Not a child. The whole stay-off-the-counter thing suddenly made a lot more sense.

So now the story is even funnier to me, but mostly because I’m dense.