April 15, 2014
I had always lived under the impression that the stories we used to read as a kid, the ones where the fire department saved the kitty from the tree, were all made up … some sort of propagandist effort to endear one arm of public servants to children.
I was wrong.
For those of you getting to the game a little late, here’s a synopsis: I am single, love it, and have a 4-month old Belgian Malinois puppy named Lola and Mariah Catty, the codependent kitty, both female, and both constant reminders as to why I enjoy being single.
They are demanding little divas that need more attention than one man can dole out and always seem to try to one-up one another where I’m concerned. Now you’re somewhat caught up so let’s talk about my weekend.
Everything was fine until Friday night. Mariah has taken to going outside since we’ve begun to see some warmer weather and it isn’t unusual for her to spend the night away from home, so when she didn’t come back I didn’t give it much thought. From there it only got … weird. Not just for me but the neighbors as well, which I was hoping to avoid because I think I finally have them adjusted to the level of the music pouring out of my doors and windows.
Saturday morning rolls around and I go out to get the cat so she won’t starve to death, a real phobia of hers, and I can hear her, but I can’t see her. So, after an hour of searching and calling and wandering my yard like an escaped Alzheimer’s patient calling out to someone who isn’t there, I FINALLY spot her … some 25 feet in the air, stuck in a tree.
OK, I admit I spent a brief period of time laughing at her, and no, I don’t particularly feel bad about it, but as the hours went on Saturday, the day growing older, I began to realize how it must look and sound — me standing at the base of this huge tree talking to it off and on throughout the day.
I can see myself now, standing in my yard, looking up at this tree, gesticulating and arguing like a madman. This rolls into Saturday night, the two of us arguing with one another, me telling her to climb down and her telling me I had to come get her.
Sunday morning breaks beautiful and glorious … the azaleas were in fine form for the final round of The Masters and my neighbors awake to a man in his yard arguing with a tree — still. Mariah’s coloring is perfectly camouflaging for her if you aren’t standing right there, so anyone more than 10 feet away can’t see her.
The looks are getting longer and more intense from the neighbors and I’m sure at any time someone is going to call the police and just have me locked away, which actually might have been a vacation.
So, as of Monday morning, I’m faced with a dilemma of sorts and not sure what to do without having a $10,000 bill from the fire department to get the cat out of the tree. And I know you may be thinking I’m mean because I haven’t scaled the thing and fetched her, but there have to be two dozen ways for her to climb down. Besides, I’m not totally convinced she’s not coming down and going back up. Don’t bother calling the authorities, if she doesn’t come out on her own I’ve made other arrangements, just not the bell and siren type.
This wouldn’t be the first time either of them has done something like this, toying with me for their entertainment, but I guess the bigger lesson, for me at least, is I shouldn’t discount those little golden books we used to read … there’s truth in those fairy tales.
D. C. Moody is a staff writer for The Easley Progress, The Pickens Sentinel and Powdersville Post and can be reached at email@example.com. Views expressed in this column are those of the writer only and do not represent the newspaper’s opinion.