The Not-A-Cat

The aromatic fragrance of the steaming hot latte I was delivering to Gluten-Free Mama, was not enough to overcome the offensive presence hammering away at our nostrils in the early predawn hour. I’m not talking about the roses blooming just outside our bedroom window.

“I hope this helps,” I murmured, appreciating the gravity of the situation. I am normally reluctant to share my insignificant prattling to my Sweetest of Apple Blossoms, until after she has sufficient time to knock back enough of the nectar of the gods, to be able to function. 

"Honestly! I thought it was Mr. Crips's cousin..."

Nodding emphatically, no mean task while swilling the welcome goodness, she spoke, an ominous sign for such an early point in her day. “Where’s Ellie Mae?” she inquired, proving yet once again how accurately she has her finger riveted on the pulse of all that is our world.

Uncertainty reared its pointy little head in a most unwelcome fashion. 

“Ellie Mae?” I inquired casually, stalling for time, my brain spinning out of control while I tried to maintain a certain air of nonchalance. Think of it as false bravado, or even the calm before the storm, if you like. “Why do you ask?” I inquired, feigning ignorance, a status generally not difficult to achieve.

Though GF Mama knows everything, all she was willing to impart to me at that precise moment, was The Look. Well, that and the almost negligible movement of her non-latte-bearing hand. Instinctively I began to edge my way back out of our boudoir, a man on a hopeless mission.

Earlier, by the light of my headlamp, I had spent an hour in the orchard, hand-watering more than 160 just-planted tomato seedlings. Ellie Mae, as always, had not only accompanied me, she had been enthusiastically assisting me, though honestly, who knew that the tomato cages would do that cool domino trick, and all topple over when only one was brushed against?

The last I had seen, she was cavorting with Mr. Crips, the cat, who looked several cups short of the requisite amount of coffee HE needed, to make the rodents of Mendocino County quake in their tracks. Ellie Mae, on the other hand, appeared as though she had received intravenous injections of the Double-Shot, Expresso Special.

I paused as I opened up the kitchen door, through which I could see my tail-wagging best pal, my fur-baby, my-I staggered backwards, my eyes already starting to water. “Oh. My. God. Ellie Mae, what have you done?”

My eyes squinting comically, as though to somehow help block out the overwhelming stench, I stood as though transfixed. Taking advantage of my lightning-quick reflexes, Ellie dodged past me and dashed through the house until she ended up in our bedroom. With her snout one inch from GF Mama’s latte, which she now had grasped in both hands, as if for dear life, Ellie Mae shared her gift. There was no way it could be avoided or ignored.

By now the astute reader has gleaned the essential: The black and white cat that Ellie Mae had successfully flushed out of the manzanita grove, the one with the stripe, was not a cat, it was a skunk.

Terrified, both for Ellie Mae and for myself, I lurched forward and persuaded Ellie to accompany me back out of our bedroom, where we retraced our footsteps to the front door, through which Ellie was ushered. I slammed the door, keeping Ellie Mae outside, if not the scent du jour, and returned to face the music.

Fortunately for me, more serious matters were at hand than informing me of my shortcomings. Besides, there was nowhere near enough time for that, so Gluten-Free Mama got right to the point. “What are we going to do with her when we go to Willits?”

We had to go to town. Never had we left Ellie Mae behind at home, when we left the mountain, in the six months since she joined us from the shelter. To say she experienced anxiety is to say New Orleans experienced Katrina: there was no room for doubt.

Ellie Mae escape? Perish the thought...

Shooting from the hip, and hoping the bullets weren’t blanks, I replied confidently, “We’ll just have to leave her here.” Thinking aloud, probably just to prove I could do it, I waxed on with, “We can’t keep her in the house so we’ll just have to leave her in the yard. I know she won’t stay there, but maybe we can at least get up on Bell Springs Road before she gets out.”

Right, and maybe # 45 will do us all a favor and take a long walk off a short pier, but I doubt it. 

Tomorrow: 

"Working out in the great outdoors, I had Ellie Mae in a big tuppie with a few inches of water in it. Lathered up with a combination of doggie shampoo and tomato juice, Ellie Mae, who had been thrashing around frantically, suddenly slipped out of her collar and was gone with the wind.

At least she was in character: she was somewhat scarlet from the juice.”