Our family certainly loved our pets but we didn’t let the pets run the show around the house. We took good care of them, but our dog knew she was a dog. Our cocker spaniel, Jingle Bell (RIP), was not on a regular walking schedule and she didn’t eat organic dog food. Of course she got groomed and cuddled and made regular trips to the vet, but never slept inside or wore seasonal sweaters. We also had two cats over the years, the dearly departed Skeeter and CowCat. All the animals in our family had it pretty good, and they even made the Christmas cards every now and then.
Late into the Skeeter years, another cat from the other side of the tracks was making itself very comfortable in our driveway. Now this wasn’t a sweet, lost housecat, this was a wild mangy voodoo wilderness cat with the intention of corrupting or killing our Skeeter. We called the cat Lucifer and did our best to protect Skeeter from Lucifer’s demonic antics. Lucifer hissed and growled and cast spells and hated children. It was rumored that he was seen eating a snake. Unfortunately Lucifer’s unnerving presence triggered the onset of Skeeter’s persistent anxiety attacks, hair loss and bout with bulimia. We made a family decision that Lucifer had to go.
First we tried to capture Lucifer and take him to the humane society. Boldface lie. We never had any intention of taking him to the humane society. We were going to just release him in another neighborhood somewhere far far away—or on interstate I75. I once used Lucifer as a barging tool to convince my parents to let me go to a concert in Birmingham. “But mom, please let me go. I promise I will capture Lucifer and leave him in the woods in Alabama.” We set a series booby-traps with strings and boxes. We tried everything to cage that hellcat, but no success. We even tried to con it into submission using the sweet here-kitty-kitty voice but he wasn’t falling for it. Since we couldn’t catch it, we conspired to kill it. Would antifreeze covered cat food end the madness?
Drastic times. Drastic measures.
Had you for a second, didn’t I? DON’T WORRY, PETA-we didn’t go that far.
But we thought about it.
In the end, we called Critter Catchers and a manly woman with a mullet and a backwoods southern accent happily took care of the situation.
I dare you to find someone who loves their job more than the proud members of the Animal Control Unit.