Diary of a Manic Mother: Why Cats Have 9 Lives

This weekend was a full-out Germapalooza at the Jameson house. I came home from work on Friday with a fever, felt a little better on Saturday, but by Sunday 3 of the 5 people in my house were in sad, sad shape. The words "projectile" and "loose" come to mind, and that's all I'm going to burden you with.

My nephew had invited us to Sunday breakfast, and I didn't want to disappoint him. We loaded up in the car and headed to the restaurant. When we got there, we were in a hurry to run in the door and appear as if we were on time (actually, we were 5 minutes late). My head was a foggy haze. I had Kenny pull over before we got there so I could hurl some pink lemonade on the side of the road. Everything echoed in my head, but as everyone was hopping out and slamming doors, I heard the faint sound of a cat. It wasn't a happy, milk-lapping, meow; it was a cat in distress. A pissed-off, out-of-patience, hisser of a cat. I looked around, out of time and needing to get to the restaurant, but thinking that cat had to be nearby. Nothing. My husband was hissing now. "Hurry! Screw the cat! What are you going to do, stuff it in your purse and order it some eggs?"

Hmm. Maybe the cat was hungry?

We went inside. I ordered some soup. Breakfast conversation waxed and waned, and the check came and we left. In the course of our meal, my husband and I determined that a trip to the doc-in-a-box was in order. Medications were needed, and in a hurry. My little girls were shells of themselves, and you could see the germs crawling in the whites of their eyes. They were sick little souls. We rushed to the car, and I heard it again.

That cat was still pissed. Really, really pissed. If you've heard that sound, you know there's no mistaking the sound of a hissy, pissy cat.

"Kenny," I paused. "That cat is in trouble."

"We don't have time," he rushed. He's always in a hurry. I think there's an internal timer that's always going off in his head, unless he's horizontal on our couch at home watching reruns of Cops.

"But he sounds pretty bad," I countered. I like to think that I'm a rescuer, but really, I just like to pretend that I'm a rescuer.

"Get in the car!" My husband was out of patience. His children needed amoxicillin in a bad, bad way.

We got to the doc's office, and as soon as we got out, I heard it again. The plaintive wailing of a cat. The plaintive, familiar wailing of a cat. The blood drained from my face.
I yelled before I realized I was yelling.

"KENNY! THE CAT IS UNDER OUR CAR!"

I could just see it now. Bits and pieces of cat peppered underneath the hood. The poor thing probably thought it was nice and cozy up there, and without warning, got sucked into a belt that morning. The only thing it had left was a voicebox and a head to alert someone it was now a mangled mess of feline spaghetti in the engine compartment of my car.

"Jesus God." Those were the only words my husband could mutter. The internal alarm was still ticking away inside. There was no time for cats. The babies needed to see the doctor. There might have been a life or death situation on our hands, but it didn't involve that poor cat.

After the doctor, we dropped off prescriptions at the pharmacy. By the time we pulled into the driveway, the kids were full aware that a cat - like shrapnel - had been blasted under our car. I thought of this sweet gray and black tabby in our neighborhood, a kind little stray that I fed on occasion. The kids named him Oreo. I was sure it was him. We flung the car doors open and bolted towards the house, hands cupping our ears so we couldn't hear the wailing cat anymore.

"FIND IT, KENNY!" I barked, "AND FIX IT!" When it comes to the job description of husbands, fixing anything that's broken falls at the top of my list. Shredded cats included.

I went inside. All I could think about was the comfort of my blue couch. I wanted to die. Maybe not as graphic as that poor cat, but death sounded much more comfortable than what I was feeling at the moment. I hadn't snuggled in for thirty seconds before Kenny walked through the door.

"Kelly. That cat under the car? It's yours."

I shot up from the couch like a misfired rocket. It couldn't be my cat. She was an inside cat. My mind quickly retraced my steps over the last 24 hours. I helped our oldest with her homework last night. Kenny had gone to bed, and I followed awhile later. When I got to our room, the back door was wide open. She had escaped.

We rallied our troops in the driveway. Kenny went in with the broom.

Unfortunately, Kenny has spent the last 10 years ensuring my cat hates him, so any coaxing on his part was an exercise in futility. She wasn't coming out for him...not even if he had a fresh tuna between his teeth. My daughter shoved him aside. "Let me try, Dad. I sound like Mom and she hates me a little less than you." My child speaks the truth.

No dice. I was motionless, too sick to offer any help. Too sick and too puzzled...how on earth had this cat survived hours under the car across a dozen or so miles through town that morning? There's a reason cats have 9 lives.

By now, all the neighbors are wondering why our family is sprawled out on the driveway with our heads stuck under the car. Some of them came to offer help.

Aaron's parents live next door. He was visiting over the weekend from Denver. Aaron has lost about 125 pounds, and thank God he did, because he was able to shimmy under my car.

Aaron, unlike most men I know, is a cat person. He speaks to them. He also has arms that span 10 feet, so he noodled them up in the guts of my car to rescue my cat. Please, dear Lord, don't let her be cut in half. I can't have a cat that's in two pieces. Kenny would rejoice. I would faint.