  I have a friend . . . let's call her B. Anyway, she is a certified cat lady and she called me about these two cats that she had somehow "acquired" that needed a home. I've known her about a dozen years and every time she does this, I know she means for me to say, "Certainly I'll take them!
I was in the market for a couple more cats. " I didn't do this, though. Instead I called a shelter I volunteer for and asked them to take the cats. They reluctantly agreed. &nbsp; A date was set -- yesterday! -- that B and I would repair to the shelter which is NOT close to my house.
Far from it, in fact -- it's about an hour away on a twisting country lane. When I called B to seal the deal, she denied knowing that she had agreed to accompany me, and so on, and so on, and ended up bawling that her life was fifty times worse than she let on, and to just forget it. Now losing face on both sides of the situation, I reluctantly agreed to take the cats by myself. And so it went that I dropped my daughter off at the babysitter, sheathed my back seat in a plastic matress cover, and picked up the cats. B will not allow me into her house -- I have NO IDEA why -- so she was waiting at the curb with two carriers and their occupants. Turns out these cats were found in a box downtown.
Since B is insane, the plot developed more and more holes as she talked on, but in general I gleaned that someone had taken them, gotten evicted, then someone ELSE had taken them, they were allergic to them, then B had them, then one of B's friends took them. In order to bring them to the curb where my car idled, the last "owner" had to bribe her pizza delivery man to drive them to Front and Girard, B took the El down there and transported them to Frankford Terminal, and someone ELSE picked her up there and drove her to her house. (Of the three cat ladies mentioned here I am the only one who drives). Then I drove them to the shelter in the country. &nbsp; The cats, a tabby and a tortie, meowed the entire time, of course, but at least the meows were quiet and not heinous. I put on smooth jazz for them and kept driving.
I would've preferred to rock out to some nice death metal, but it was not to be. &nbsp; &nbsp;Now one thing you must know about me is that I am a very reluctant driver. I don't HATE it -- I actually enjoy the physical act of it -- but it stresses me that everyone ELSE is insane. For example, on a narrow road I waited for some troglodyte to get into his truck in my lane, where he was parked, and the car in the opposing lane, annoyed at the lack of space between our vehicles, barked: "PAY ATTENTION TO ME NOT THE PERSON! " Oh, okay. To avoid scratching YOUR car, I'll hazard hitting him.
You can't wait two seconds. What the hell is wrong with people? &nbsp; Anyway, I drove on. The tabby made a suspicious rustling in his bin and next thing I knew I smelled poop. Eye-wateringly vile. SO!
Cursing vociferiously, I rolled down the window and tried as hard as I could not to pull over next to the farm I was driving past and just let them GO. I arrived at the shelter, shelter manager D took a look and despite B's assurances to the contrary, the tortie had ringworm!!!!!!! Just my luck. We flouresced it under the blacklight. &nbsp; "She'll have to be washed three times a week," D said. "Which is a pain in the butt.
" &nbsp; "I'm sorry -- I can take her back --" &nbsp; "No," she said. "I think you've removed these cats from a very bad situation. " &nbsp; But what it cost! &nbsp; Anyway, dying of guilt that I saddled D with a sick cat, I drove home, calling B on my cellphone to tell her that the tortie had ringworm. &nbsp; "It only is accurate 50% of the time," B asserted. "That flourescing.
" &nbsp; Yeah, okay, 50% of the time if the cat has ringworm it might NOT flouresce. But if it flouresces -- and you have itching and hair loss, then you have got ringworm, my friend. &nbsp; Why is this a big deal? The heartbreak of ringworm? Well, chiefly because it's so contagious. Now, I don't care if I get it -- I really don't -- though I will say D kindly cleaned the cages before I left and I lysolled everything in my car -- including my skin.
The tortie kindly rubbed against me with her nasty ears on my bare legs, fueling the fire. &nbsp; But mainly, it's because I don't want my daughter to get it; if she does, she can't go to school and we're eating beans to afford her preschool. So, I left her at the babysitter a little longer, dropped off the cages, and went home, where I made bleach water, scrubbed the interior of the car, stepped inside, stripped in front of the washer (including sneakers), washed everything, robed and went upstairs, where I took a very hot shower, and sanitized the tub afterward. &nbsp; When I picked up my daughter from S's house, I almost stepped in a squashed sparrow, adding to the overall vile and scatological character of the day. But I hope it gives those cats a happy ending. 
