So what's this? A shelter dog? Great. You know I don't like cats, dogs, humans or tadpoles, and you bring in a shelter dog?
Not that I have anything against shelter animals. Some of my best friends are shelter animals. I was one myself. I just don't want to live with one. Bad memories.
What? She's damaged goods? Got an ear infection. Can barely get up the stairs. Has to go outside to go to the bathroom.
So I move upstairs. Let the old gal have the first and second floors. Just don't come upstairs. Doesn't listen. Sneaks up and steals my food.
Can barely defend myself since Scott starting snipping my claws. Cat scratch fever. Yeah, I got the fever. You bet I do. Told you not to get new furniture.
My jab is harmless now.
Thanks.
More good news. She's got mites too? Stay the hell away from me.
Everything's okay, and then Scott's girlfriend sees a flea or something around me. Thinks I've got the mites! Yikes. Doesn't anybody know mites are microscopic. This means YOU CAN'T SEE THEM.
I feel fine, people.
She says we've got to give me the mite medicine the dog is taking. The Internet says cats take the same thing, she says.
So once a day when I yawn, he shoves a syringe into my mouth. Foul tasting stuff too. Like Two Buck Chuck that's two weeks old.
And that's not all. She orders him to swab my ears with some spray that stings worse than an overtime loss.
After a few days of this, I start to feel funny.
I'm drunk. Can't control my balance. Stepping into my food. Felt fine before the meds. Maybe the girlfriend is jealous. She's trying to off me.
Thought I was going to have some alone time for Thanksgiving. Guess not. Stuff me in the cat cage. I'm going to fly. To LA for Thanksgiving? I'm feeling like Garfield on psychedelic mushrooms
We're flying economy? Put me under the seat. Lots of good feet to look at.
Flying is overrated. No cat box. No snacks.
At least it's a short flight. Hell, I can't walk anyway. They're drugging me.
If we can just get to a vet -- one who's been to vet school -- we can get this taken care of. It's the drugs that are killing me.
My home in LA is in a dark garage because this house has a dog and they don't want me giving the dog mites. People, there are no mites. You are the mites.
Finally, we see the doc. I tell the doc I'm fine. Just stop the drugs. He gets it. We speak the same language. Checks my ear. My nose. My butt.
No mites.
"Stop the meds." he says. " That's the problem. Might be causing neurological damage. Or she might be allergic."
Thanks, Doc. Another week of that stuff and I'd be sharing cell time with Lindsay Lohan
Thanksgiving is finally over and it's time to go home.
I'm off the meds. Back to normal.
Come and get me. Ready when you are.
Or maybe not. Do you think I'll just hop in the cat cage and go when you want to go?
After being kidnapped. Swabbed. Doped.
There are some great hiding places in this garage. Try to find me.
"Let me know when it's impossible to make your flight. Then I''ll come out."
I come out when I calculate we have a 95 per cent chance of missing the flight. I like those odds.
At the airport, I get out of the cage when the TSA guy pats me down.
"Hey everybody, look at me. I'm not carrying anything. Better check him out though. He's been terrorizing me."
We miss the flight and I have to stay in the other cage another hour, but it's worth it.
Finally, we're home.
Now do me a favor. Clean my box. Keep the water fresh. Let's have a little more variety with the food menu. Make a down payment on a cat condo.
You owe me.
And I'll never trust you again.
