Aaaaaaaah... pussy control...

Picture it: River City, Thursday night, 10:00 p.m.:



I realized on Thursday I hadn't seen Gizmo for quite some time. I'm used to the cats being gone since I let them go outdoors -- they love exploring and I don't have to scoop out a litter box (!) -- but they generally reappear in the evening. George was whining at me somewhat oddly and I decided that was her Lassie Decoder Skills at work: the little cat was in trouble.

I went outside and started calling for Giz, who meowed back immediately. I got to play hot-cold-warmer for a minute until I realized she was in a tree. A very tall tree that I had no way of climbing (flashback: rope in junior high gym class). I guessed later that something had scared her up to the heavens because she was UP there and apparently wasn't coming down.

I called the non-emergency numbers for the police and fire departments. I didn't think it would work, but it was worth a try. The police lady wasn't very nice to me. She told me the cat would come down when she was hungry enough. I didn't tell her that Giz, god love her, is kinda stupid, and can't always figure out she'll get petted if she jumps on my lap. Instead, she'll sit by my chair, yowling her fool head off, when I know full well she can jump with no problem.

Sigh.

The fire department guy was nicer, perhaps because I was sniffling and speaking in my I-am-not-crying voice, but gave me the same answer: She got up there, she'll come down. I was upset, period, but mainly because the cat had picked a night when it was both raining and less than 40 degrees outside. I stood near the tree -- which was, of course, in my Republican, possibly gun-owning neighbors' backyard -- and pleaded and cajoled for the cat to come down. No dice. I updated my Facebook status -- because, you know, what would you do? -- and support started pouring in. Friends offered rescue suggestions and Sterling and Steele tried to come over with an extend-o-ladder but couldn't get it in their car. I called my folks simply to ask if they had a ladder but burst into tears at the sound of my mom's voice. (Yeehaw -- I'm 36, everyone!) Very, very much to their credit, my folks came over and tried to help. Queen S stood with me by the tree and King V stood on my back porch with his windbreaker cinched tightly around his face. I laughed and told him how much he looked like my late Grandma V. It was raining; if he'd put on one of those old lady plastic hair protectors like she used to wear, they might've been indistinguishable. He would've needed to hot set his hair on rollers first, though.

We finally had to give up for the night. There were no ladders, the cat wasn't budging, and neither the Humane Society nor Animal Control were open. I vowed to get the cat down the next day, even if I had to call a tree-trimming service and pay a rescue fee. I slept fitfully, dreaming at one point that Giz had made it inside on her own. I woke early, exhausted but unable to keep sleeping since I knew she was probably still trapped. I was right. Yoooowwwl, cajole cajole cajole, yooooowllll, more crying on my part. Grrr, cat! Just. Come. Down!

I had tried opening a can of food the night before, but had no tuna or wet cat food on hand, so I clinked the opener on a can of tomatoes. (Maybe she's Italian?) No response. (Definitely not Italian. Or maybe she only cooks with fresh tomatoes.) Some animal, however, had eaten all the food in the bowl I'd left by the back door. If it wasn't George, I didn't want to think about it. It could've been anything from a raccoon to an R.O.U.S.

I went next door to ask the neighbors for help. They'd had lots of people working on their house and anyway, the dad is Captain Testosterone -- judging by his conversational tactic of Always Talking Really Loudly, his beer drinking on the front porch, and the giant SUV he drives. The man was bound to have a ladder somewhere and I was right. He leaned it against the tree and ascended. The cat got nervous and dug in when he tried to pull her off the branch she'd been perched on for god knows how many hours. He descended to put on a leather jacket that he wouldn't mind having punctured by claws, I got a towel, and he tried again. I even offered to pay him in beer, but he declined.

His second attempt was successful. Of course, the whole time he was balanced on the ladder, I kept imagining one false move was going to send him crashing to the ground and that I was going to have to pay his medical bills for life because he seems like the litigious sort. (Pardon me for not entirely trusting a person who had a McCain/Palin sign in his front yard. Until it was, ahem, stolen.) Luckily, he got to the ground safely. I was hoping for a Hallmark moment where he handed the cat to me and I wept in gratitude, but she got away and ran under their deck. I set a bowl of unnaturally fragrant chicken breast by the back door (my lemon-pepper poultry brings the kitties to the yard...) and hoped Giz would eventually come in. I went inside to sit down and heard George hiss a moment later. Giz! You followed me inside! GOOD CAT! I shall now slam the back door shut and seal it with concrete... until you need to go outside to poop.

It took Giz a while to realize what was happening, I think. She trotted around the house like "Hey, food! I like that stuff!" and did the same with her water bowl. She finally came up to me, apparently remembering I am The Source From Which the Cuddling Originates. She lay on my chest, using my boob as a pillow, and purred contentedly. I was very, very happy to have her back inside and repeatedly told her so. And then I told her she was grounded until she was 30.