|I totally made this graphic with
my computer. I’m such an artist.
The other night I awoke to the most horrible sound in the world. No, it was not Grey Goose being poured down the drain, although that sound would most likely bring me to my knees. (I will never know this sound, however, as who would do such a thing?)
The sounds I heard sounded like a baby crying. Did someone abandon their child in my subdivision? Why would a screaming baby be outside my window? I hoped it was a joke, or perhaps the horrific noise was someone blaring an old Korn album. (I swear that band’s music can induce seizures.)
I figured it was my ethical obligation to check it out and see if there was a small child screaming his lungs out on my lawn. I’m knew if I found a baby, I wasn’t going to take him and raise him as my own. I’m barely capable of taking care of myself, let alone another human being. (But then again, a child is the perfect reason to always have fish sticks for dinner.) I figured I wouldn’t keep the baby, but maybe the people who abandoned him left some snacks with the kid. I decided to investigate.
I stepped outside and immediately wished I had grabbed my husband’s “indoor/outdoor” shoes. What if a stork dropped off the baby and then shit all over my lawn? (The stork, not the baby. I figured the stork would at least leave the baby with a diaper, or at least that’s how it’s done in all the photos I’ve seen.) I decided to push through and continue on even if I was barefoot on a lawn full of stork poo. I could handle it, as I’m not a pussy.
I looked around wondering exactly what I was looking for. Would he be in a bassinet? What about a box with a sign that says “Free baby?” Would he be like Moses in a basket made of leaves? I figured the basket option was the most possible because it sounded like a craft idea from Pinterest and since that site came along, everyone thinks they’re a Martha Stewart.
I didn’t have to look much further before I found the source of the screams. It wasn’t a baby but two cats in heat. (I think I would have preferred a baby. Or a cupcake.) Both cats were sitting outside my bedroom window staring at each other and moaning. Um, what was this?!
Did I interrupt their morning ladies coffee where they complain about their husbands and discuss whether they will ever really be able to catch their tail? Was this a girls weekend? I would think they would go somewhere more glamorous than the overgrown bush in my front yard if they wanted a nice get-away.
*I want to make so many comments and jokes about bush here, but that would be childish….and I can’t figure out which one I want to use.*
I suspected perhaps they were women on a budget who wanted a quick retreat without the hefty expense, so my bush was a reasonable option. (These bush jokes write themselves.) I understood if they wanted to save some kibble, but if they thought they were going to get an all-you-can-eat buffet later for dinner, they could think again. I don’t share my food.
As I watched the two of them stare at each other and whine, I realized something…they were in heat. Seriously?! I’m an animal lover and advocate and all (shocking, right?), so for two cats to be in heat in my front yard made me angry. Who doesn’t spay/neuter their animals? Do people have no respect for Bob Barker and his daily plea? I was so mad that I couldn’t just stand there and watch, so I went inside. Plus, there was no way I was going to interrupt a cat fight. (No pun intended.)
Inside I began collecting literature to distribute to my neighbors about the importance of spay/neuter, and started thinking about the hygienic element of the whole thing. (Or the lack of hygiene). These cats were essentially having their ladies days all over my lawn, and hanging out to complain about it. I wanted to tell them I totally understood their pain and offer them a heating pad and a box of Midol, but I didn’t want to encourage them to come to my yard.
I felt bad for the cats but I didn’t want their “heat” in my front yard. After all, I wasn’t running a brothel. (I figured the other tom cats in the neighborhood wouldn’t be good customers as one of them has really let himself go and another one looks like a domestic abuser. I’m not sure what a wife beater looks like, but I think that cat would qualify. (I also know that a wife beater looks amazing on Ryan Gosling. Have you seen him in Crazy, Stupid, Love?)
I didn’t want to run a night club or a brothel, so I yelled to break up the bitch-fest. (Is a female cat called a bitch? I’m more of a dog person so I don’t know these things.) I yelled out something that sounded like “Caw! Caw!” I’m not sure why that word came to mind, but it’s better than “Scram!” which was the second word that came to mind. I would have to evaluate my urge to yell what an 80-year-old man would consider fighting words at my next therapist appointment. Until then, I needed to focus on getting these cats to scee-daddle.
I was able to send one of the cats running by threatening to turn the vacuum on her. Unfortunately, the other cat stayed behind. Apparently she shared my love of the vacuum and wasn’t intimidated. She went running and hid behind my retaining wall where I’m sure she will set up shop as a madame. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to be the owner of a brothel. I’m way cuter than Heidi Fleiss and a way better decorator. (Velvet chairs, Heidi? Ugh. Such a cliche.) But I knew if I was forced to host a brothel, that brothel was going to be the best in town.
I went inside and started making my list for what I would need for a classy brothel. A disco ball…red satin sheets…and a metal cash box with a little handle and a key.
I’m planning to make a sign out of katnip.
Currently, the cat is still outside behind my retaining wall, and if she’s the hoe-bag I think she is, I suspect I will be running a NICU on a few short months.