Friday morning, the day after a celebration of thanks known as Bronxgiving, I boarded a plane at LaGuardia carrying two cats in a bag.
This was no small feat, my friends.
I never would have made it to the airport without losing my mind or committing a felony if it weren't for my girl Reebs who got her ass up before 7 a.m. and took the 1 train all the way to Times Square to help me wrangle two kittens into a single carrier. Even with four hands between the two of us, that shit wasn't easy.
It became quickly apparent that we'd need to bag the cats in the bathroom. Unfortunately, Goat caught on quickly that he was about to be corralled, so he did what any smart cat would do, he shrunk under the couch and hid.
And there he stayed. I tried treats and pleading, then demanding that he come out, but no dice. The clock was tearing off loud ticks reminding me that the airplane would leave without us, so Reebs and I did what anyone would do: we picked up the couch and shook the cat out.
Poor Goat, who had never been shaken from a couch in his life, tumbled from between the fabric and the frame and began sprinting hard in whatever direction he was pointed. Unfortunately for him, that was right at the refrigerator. He ran head first into the freezer door, bounced off, then looked at me with one eye half open, dazed, like, "Why?!?!?"
That's when Reebs made the mistake of looking at me and asking, "Are you okay?" Which, of course, made me lose it.
I started crying and blubbering, and Reebs did what all good friends do, and told me to shut it up.
"You can't do this right now! You can't! You have to hold it together! The more you freak out, the more the cats are going to freak out!"
She was right, but I just felt so guilty. I was moving and making the cats come with me, despite cats really, really liking where they are already.
Still, she was right, and the clock continued to count down, and so we went back to it, trying to get Goat into the bathroom. Apparently a cat concussion makes that easier, and on the next try we were all four in the bathroom.
However, the bathroom is not the SWA-approved cat carrier, and so the daunting task of getting two cats in a single bag still loomed. Reebs held open the carrier while I picked up the girl cat and tried placing her into the bag, but she had all four legs extended, along with her claws, and with a single body thrust she was out of my arms, and I was bleeding profusely from a crease in my palm.
Again with the waterworks. I was stressed and sweaty and crying and bleeding, and basically repeating to the animals as if they understood, "You have to go in the bag. You have to go in the bag."
Sheer force and determination saved the day, and finally, both cats sat defeated, pissed off and silent in their cross-country crate.
So, this post goes out to Reebs, without whom, I would be a shredded, bloody heap on the floor of a New York studio apartment. Love you, BigPimpinNoG31.