The Cat's in the Bag

This year represents a new first in vacations.

We are taking Trinket.

And Scott and one of his daughters (the one without the boyfriend that makes staying at home so appealing.)

It’s a whole new ballgame.

First – a cat can not be relied upon to pack its own suitcase.

My kids are by no means capable of deciding what is needed for a long trip either, but can do more than the cat can. Hil would pack 75 pounds of makeup, hair accouterments, and her entire earring collection and fill the remaining space with stuffed animals. We’d arrive and she’d have the clothes on her back and maybe a spare pair of panties. Pat’s suitcase would be brimming with video games, hand held electronic devices, DVDs and a portable TV. And his favorite basketball shorts. Maybe.

So for them I make lists – 2 of this item, 4 of that item, and let’s not forget your X,Y,and Z. I make it their responsibility to see that the entire list is checked off and makes it into the suitcase before it goes into the car. They can bring whatever personal choices they have as well, but they are limited to what can fit into their backpacks.

But the cat is my domain. I am admittedly a novice pet owner. (Read that: “I am sure I have no idea what I am doing.”) I toy briefly with the idea of leaving her at home and asking a neighborhood kid to check on her. One who is responsible enough to make sure that Trinket does not rip down the drapes, does not starve to death, does not have to resort to drinking from the toilet, and does not escape in the wild. But no such kid exists, and there is no paycheck big enough to motivate a parent to make sure that any of it is done.

And besides, she is so new to us. The way she craves attention when I walk through the door at night gives me pangs of guilt that if we left her for a week she’d be heartbroken thinking her People have left her. HER People. Her beloved People. The People that give her deli meat.

Charlotte says it’s okay to bring the cat to her cottage. I admit that I feel like a new mom – bringing everything the cat could possibly want or need for even a millisecond because my mother’s intuition tells me that the minute I get there the cat will desperately need the very thing that I chose to leave behind and it will be a life and death need. And I must go buy a replacement Thing. At once. Forget the beach. We need to find a Pet Smart.

Charlotte tells me that they have a litter box at the cottage already for their Fatty Cat. One less thing to pack, and still I am skeptical. Animals are territorial. What if Trinket knows that it is Fatty Cat’s toily and refuses to do her business in it? Picks a nice spot under the dining room table instead?

As the car fills up with luggage and coolers and beach gear and such, I have to make a sacrifice. Something must stay behind. The newly purchased cat carrier while homey for Trinket is big and bulky for the car and I have to make the choice. I bring the kitty litter but leave the box at home. I will hope for the best.

Against what I’d anticipated, Trinket goes willingly into the carrier at the last minute and is carefully place in the car between Hil and Pat where she begins a 90 minute meowing fest, interrupted only briefly when I dash into Starbucks for Roadies.

Our adventure has begun.