You see them everywhere now, but when we first started seeing signs and ads in places we traveled for “Cat Coffee Houses,” it was unique. I was fascinated, of course, with how in the world people got their cats to behave long enough to drive over to the coffee shop without inflicting a dire amount of blood loss upon them, but apparently not everyone has a razor-honed killing machine version of feline companionship, either.
Also, I’ve been told since, that the cats in these coffee shops are basically employees – you can’t bring your pet cat in off the street because, holy Lord, can you even imagine a room full of people and hot things all swirled together with the claws and terror involved in a clowder of mad cats? (Extra points for those who knew a group of cats was a clowder, I had to look it up.) Can you imagine the insurance involved here? Do they 1099 the cats, or what? Is it required feline employees know the correct temperature at which to store dairy items?
So. Many. Questions.
Like everything else that looks interesting along the way, we never have time to stop at a Cat Coffee House. That’s the curse of commercial highway travel — we’ve been everywhere, but only for however long it takes us to roar through at the posted speed limit. Honk honk! I have hundreds of pictures of landmarks, streaking by. (Raise your hand if you have approximately 99,000 pictures of the St. Louis Arch, from every highway you can see it from. What is it about the arch that compels a picture, almost every time you pass it? I feel like I may be the only one with my hand raised … anyway, this is about cats.)
So, we’re home, and George sends me this event notification, for whatever reason, but mostly because he’s trying to get rid of me.
And of course, I think, “OMG I want kitty to do yoga with me!” and then I think, “That’s a bad idea!” but it’s too late, because I’m looking up videos on YouTube about how great it is for the cat and the human, and how everyone benefits from the connection between cat and human. And I mean, kitty will let me pet him and love on him, until I touch whatever magic spot it is he has that makes him bite the dook out of me, or jump up so abruptly he causes me to have arrhythmia, because I’m afraid he’s going to bite the dook out of me. Our “connection” usually involves sharp parts of him, and the skin in the general area of my face, neck, chest and hands.
Every time I write a story about this cat, I wonder why we keep him, and then I think, “You dummy, that’s not the arrangement, he keeps you.” And then he does something super cute, like meow at me when I say, “Kitty?” like he’s answering me, and I forget what a dummy I am.
In the end, I didn’t do yoga with kitty, because I spent so much time meandering around cat videos, but I did find this on one of my favorite and funniest websites, TheBloggess.com, and figured it’s probably how those folks get their cats to and from yoga and the coffee shop, but how in the world do they get the dang thing inside it? It doesn’t say if the cat is included, but it also doesn’t say where to get the oven mitts, Kevlar vest, and welding mask you’re going to have to carry around to get your cat in and out of the thing. Also: Windex to wipe the blood smears off the little bubble window:
So. Many. Questions.
(Jenny Lawson is hilarious. I highly recommend her book, “Let’s Pretend This Never Happened,” — it has become one I carry around and read, over and over again. She also has an adult coloring book, for those of you who dabble. Disclaimer – it’s about as non-trucking as you can get, which is a nice break sometimes.)