Why I hate flying

2006-03-24T14:50:00.000-08:00

You ever notice how many cats get all uppity and claws-digging-into-your-fleshity when you try to pick them up? The reason for this, dear feeding units, is our innately grounded and land-lubbing nature. Ever count a cat's legs? We got four of 'em. And, personally, I like to keep at least two of mine on ol' terra firma at any given moment.

So you can imagine my discomfort when I found myself in a jetliner (first class, of course) soaring several thousand feet above the surface of the planet, on my way to the second annual Ninjacat conference where I was delivering a paper on my new translation of the Sixteenth Century Zen classic, "Meow! The Way of the Mouseless Mousetrap".

Have I mentioned how much I hate flying? I think my retractable claws must have been making quite a mess of the armrests of my comfy, first-class chair, because the stewardess, a hot little redheaded lover of cats (I could tell), came and asked if there was anything she could bring me.

I asked for a nice, fat catnip spliff, but she told me there was no smoking, even for cats, so I requested a half-ton bag of kitty litter in stead. I figured if I buried myself in some gritty, scented particulate I might be able to forget my status of hurtling through the upper atmosphere of the Earth at ridiculous speed.

The attendant came back and informed me that they only had one ton bags of litter available, and would that do? By this time, I had whittled the armrests of my chair down to splintering stubs, so I said, "Bring on the litter!", at which moment, two other, more burly attendants, their neck muscles bulging like tree roots, appeared with the proffered one ton bag of litter.

I was already starting to feel relieved, anticipating the shower of litter that was soon to engulf myself and my so recently decimated armchair, drowning my anxiety like so many unwanted puppies at the bottom of the local swimming hole, but lo! It wasn't to be.

For, just at that moment, a crazed postal worker appeared from economy class. He was clutching a mail box--not the kind you have outside your house, but the big kind that sit out on street corners, waiting to receive your mail. How he got the thing past security I'll probably never know, but he was lurching forward towards the cockpit, wielding the mailbox like a giant battering ram.

Clearly, he intended to commandeer the plane, possibly to pilot us straight towards the Bermuda Triangle so he could deliver a special package to the Lost City of Atlantis. What do I know--I'm just a cat! But I knew this was going to be trouble. I dug my claws deeply into my chair seat, anchoring myself just in time, for before you could say "The Magical Mister Mestopheles", the two burly stewards were using the bag (my bag!)of kitty litter to pin the mad postal worker to the wall of the plane.

As fate would have it, he was right over the exit hatch. Seeing that his plan had been thwarted by cruel fate, the madman seized upon his last chance to wreak vengeance and reached behind himself, opening the airplane door. In a great WOOOSH of air, the first-class cabin depressurized, sending the postal worker, the two attendants, the large mail box, and the cat litter all throttling out of the plane and into the open air--to be promptly followed by the screaming remainder of the first class passengers, who hadn't been wearing seat belts, and were sucked out of the portal still clutching their martinis and little cocktail snacks.

The only human feeder unit to be saved was the cute stewardess, around whose ankle I had wound my long, sensuous tail. It was she, anchored thus to Yours Truly, who had the wherewithal to pull shut the door to the plane, allowing the cabin pressure to re-stabilize in time, thus saving us all from plummeting to certain annihilation somewhere over the barren deserts of the Land of Silt, whose airspace we had, I'm told, been crossing when this all went down.

It is believed that the human feeder units, including the crazed postal worker, were devoured before hitting the ground by a school of low flying Space Sharks, but as to the mailbox (and it's contents), and the one ton bag of precious kitty litter, nothing further has been gleaned.

This whole incident did little to allay my fear of flying. It did, however, set me up for some quality lap time with the red-haired stewardess, whose soothing hands stroked my fur and scratched behind my ears for the rest of the trip, and whom I convinced to stay with me for the duration of the conference as my personal grooming attendant.

Meee-ow!

Meow!

2006-03-23T07:23:00.000-08:00

Mrowr! What a purrr-fect day to start a blog. Lots of sun. Kibble in the bowl. Whatever will I post? Maybe a tractatus on the incorrigible nature of the common fieldmouse. Possibly an essay on the legalization of catnip. What? It is legal? So I can move my plants out of the basement? Cool.

Well, then maybe I'll write about the water dish. It really ticks me off, that. You see, the royal feeders aren't stingy with the kibble, or the wet food, for that matter, but the water dish--sometimes they leave it a whole week without changing the water! Sure, they add more liquid when the level gets low, but the new stuff gets mixed in with the skanky old swampwater. Haven't they ever heard of microbes? Why do you think I hang around in the bathtub so much, licking up the little droplets of fresh water leaking from the tap? It's not for the feeder's amusement or edification, I can assure you.

So, I beseech thee, noble feeders, providers of kibble, comfort, and canned delights; change thee my water on a daily basis! It's not asking too much, is it?

flatcat

Why I hate flying

Meow!