DON’T PEE ON MY LEG...

and tell me it’s raining!  It’s a lot harder than you may think to pull the wool over my eyes, being a good ole’ half-Irish girl from Montreal.  Or maybe it’s the Romany part of me (passed down along my mother’s roots), which makes it harder.  Or it just could be my almost 60 years of living, 25 of those years in the male-dominated industry of specialty publishing and most of those men the best prevaricators on the planet, second only, perhaps, to many politicians

After getting absolutely nowhere with the Town of Innisfil and their contracted employee, K9 Pest Management Group Inc. which has a contract to handle Animal Control in my town, to have someone other than myself capture the little hell cat that bit me so that I wouldn't have to go through rabies shots, I knew that I was going to have to try again.  I have to say that I am so less-than-impressed with the inertia and apathetic response to my dilemma. I was further disgusted by Animal Control’s pathetic attempt to cover up their reprehensible lack of action in such a serious matter.  And that the Town Hall designate Animal Control overseer, Daniel Rodgers, who finally called me back 8 days after I left him a message, stated to me that I was supposed to call ‘Dawn’ (Animal Control) back and let her know if my ‘neighbour’ would allow a live trap to be set.  Boy, talk about misrepresentation of facts.  I never spoke to ‘Dawn’ and the woman I did speak with, Diane, wasn't sure that Animal Control could set a live trap and take the cat into quarantine; would have to check with an ubiquitous ‘someone’ and call me back, which she never did. 

I told Dan Rodgers that his offer to have the cat trapped was a day late and a dollar short and that I would take care of the problem myself.  Mysteriously, about 2.5 hours later, Brad, from Animal Control, called me and offered the same story about who I spoke to and that he was following up because I said I would call back and hadn't.  Who are they trying to kid?  Not only do I take notes when I feel there may be issues but they are hand-written notes and so, if altered, would be obvious.  Unlike, perhaps, Animal Control’s notes and/or other documentation which are probably kept in a digital file and easily edited.  Hmmm and which story makes more sense?  As Judge Judy (I just love her) would say, “If it doesn't make sense, it’s not true.”   

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THE TAKE DOWN

Four days after my rescue attempt, I tried again, this time bolstered by Priscilla, who had also been in touch with Nigel (the local volunteer cat whisperer) about the same stray.  And further bolstered by the knowledge of what I should have done differently the first time and avoid the aftermath of being bitten and scratched.  I brought along an extra-large, extra thick bath towel, willing to sacrifice it to the greater good of capturing the little hell cat, whom I now call Daisy Duke.

This Take Down went a lot better.  As Pricilla and I walked our dogs along Daisy Duke’s known territory and hide out, Pricilla shook the small plastic container of cat crunchies (or maybe they were dog crunchies? since Pricilla doesn't have a cat).  I didn't think Daisy Duke was at all fussy what the hand-out was.  Sure enough, she emerges from the wooded area, runs down the gentle slope to the shallow drainage ditch, hesitates

for a couple of seconds and with a mighty leap, clears the barely-there rainwater, jumping high as if it was a raging stream during spring run-off.  She comes running over and immediately butts up against Sofie and then makes a beeline for Pricilla’s dog, Baby.

I’m surprised that she even comes near me, given the circumstances of our last encounter and as I bend over to stroke her, she arches her back under my hand and starts to purr.  My heart goes out to this obviously once much-loved pet who seems to love people, especially those with little white dogs.

I can feel the hard ridge of her spine and my heart cracks a little more.  As my hand moves over her petite body, I feel her bony rib cage and realize that Daisy Duke has become a mere shadow of herself over the past couple of months, since I first saw her.  As the days grow shorter, she is growing thinner and more raggedy looking. 

Even after being shredded and bitten by her, I pick her up and wrap her in the towel.  Again, she is not impressed or happy with the manoeuvre and struggles to get away.  I sure am glad that the towel contains her, although only about half-way wrapped.  Also, I have on a light jacket so at least my tummy area survives Daisy Duke’s escape attempts.  She is bewildered and terribly scared and her growls and yowling warn me to be on guard.  It’s a good thing I’m already on antibiotics ‘cause if she bites me again, at least treatment is already well under way. 

As Pricilla and I walk toward the house on the corner where the lady says she’s been feeding Daisy Duke for about a year, Daisy Duke becomes even more agitated.  She almost manages to leap from my arms as she hears the voice of The Lady From The Corner House.  No love lost there.

Kathleen does not seem to be happy that Pricilla and I have landed on her porch with Daisy Duke.  She seems almost hostile.  I can’t figure that one out.  When I had spoken with her previously (before rescue attempt #1), she seemed to be concerned about the cat and said she’d been feeding her for a long time but that the cat wouldn't come into her house.  Nuh huh.  I don’t think Kathleen speaks the whole truth.

I had made arrangements with Nigel, The Cat Whisperer, to meet me in the wood shop area where Daisy Duke was known to frequent but he got held up trying to capture another stray quite a bit further up the same street.  Yep, no lack of cats here in Sandycove Acres, The New Wild West.  So here I stand on a stranger’s porch with one very pissed off (and petrified) cat in my arms.  What to do?

To Be Continued …

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