Esme in firing position.

Watch and Waste

 

It’s 7:00 on a Thursday night. Rain patters against the windows in the kitchen. Over the years I've collected animals like I'm Noah. The Captain of my ark and I are huddled in a small, square hallway surrounded by empty coffee cups and wrappers from the McDonald’s dollar menu. We have binoculars, a pair of large disposable tweezers, and a baggie containing a small plastic vial. If I listen closely, I’m pretty sure I can hear the theme from Dragnet playing in the background.

We’re doing surveillance and have probably watched one too many cop shows. Imagine a mashup of Starsky and Hutch and the Golden Girls. Add a muscle car and imagine Starsky with a bad back, counting the days until retirement and we could have our own show.

Suddenly, imaginary suspense music envelopes the scene. The subject of our stakeout strolls into the hallway, pauses at a bait bowl of snack mix, and crosses the hall to rub flirtatiously against the Captain's leg. She curls up in his lap and purrs like a bandsaw.

Dropping the baggie on the floor between us, I aim a look at my partner that I usually reserve for husbands who buy chocolate doughnuts when you’re on Day 5 of a 7-day diet.

“I told you it wouldn’t work.”

“She smells fear.”

“She smells beef jerky on your breath.” 

Esme is a beautiful ball of gray fur who loves Bill like he’s made of bacon. She looks at me like Willy the Weasel in the chicken coop in cartoons you’ve never seen if you were born after ATMs were invented.

She’s 15-pounds of cat treats and dandelion puffball fur destined for a vet appointment tomorrow morning. She’s approximately the size of the death boulder in the first Indiana Jones movie and it’s likely that she’s looking down the throat of the kitty version of the Atkins Diet once she lands with a thud on the vet’s scale. Our job is to stake out the litter box and get a sample of the sort of thing vets like to ask for on Friday mornings to make Thursday nights an adventure.

All in all, I’d rather shave my legs with sandpaper. Our household includes four feline inhabitants, and if I have to invade the shady side of the house I want to come up with the right prize the first time. It’s like doing a drug deal with a parade full of motorized Shriners.

Also, the impending vet visit is tricky because the puffball in question has a record. She was pawprinted and landed on the Health Department’s No Fly List  during her last visit due to an assassination attempt on the technician who violated the rules of kitty etiquette with a pair of latex gloves and a cold thermometer. We avoided the vet for two years with a clever plan that involved the feline version of Witness Protection.

I wave the tweezers meaningfully. “She likes you. Tell her to go to the litterbox.”

“I don’t tell her what to do. That’s why she likes me.” 

“She likes you because you would hand feed her Beluga caviar if she wanted it.”

“You gotta know your audience.”

“I told you to do it my way. I have experience in collections. I once got a urine sample from a Dachshund with the lid from a chicken salad container.”

“Where is the container now?”

“Let’s just say I make my own chicken salad these days.”

The subject began to purr.

“Okay, what do you suggest?”

“Maybe we should feed her tuna casserole.”

Our wedding vows included the phrase, “Love, honor, and never make tuna casserole.” His previous spouse made tuna casserole for special occasions, such as any day that would be improved by a food fight. If Bill is ever poisoned, the paramedics need only to whisper the phrase “tuna casserole” to cleanse his system. I haven't made tuna casserole in 27 years but we're in a desperate situation.

I lean close to her ear and whisper the forbidden phrase. She shoots me a look that lets me know to check my shoes next time I put them on.

“Let’s change her appointment.”

“Why?”

I have a feeling that by tomorrow morning, we’ll have a fresh sample. But make sure we have a baggie in my shoe size.”