The Festo - Kitty Vacation

Recently my eldest and best kitty friend, Shiloh, just happened to disappear for two weeks. The ten year old cat was getting up there in age, and after a week of his disappearance, I decided that he was probably dead, most likely curled up under the massive tree next door that had gobbled up many a wiffle ball in my day. It was no surprise to me that an older cat would do such a thing; two of our previous cats had vanished years ago at a tired age never to be seen again.

Anyhow, on one of the days without him, I took a look outside as I waited for a friend to arrive, and a friend i did find. Shiloh sat there, looking up at me, his white paws a little dirtier, his body a little slimmer. I screamed his name to my sister to alert her of his presence before letting him back in the house that had missed him for days. He looked beaten, as though he had been through a few bar fights or slept on a curb one drunken night. In any event, he sprinted the length of the house and made a dash for the bowl of food. When i say he ate for fifteen minutes straight, I really mean he ate for more like five to ten, but that's not the point. He chowed down like he had never chowed down before. he ate cat food like Ed Norton ate teeth in Fight Club. And once he was done feasting, he got back to living life just as he had for the prior ten years, laid-back as ever and loving the catnip.

This got me to thinking, though. What the hell was my cat doing for two weeks? We all know he wasn't here, and he had never pulled such a stunt before. So, without further ado, here is my Shiloh two-week vacation story. I'll keep it as short and as absurdly over-the-top as possible.

Shiloh packed his bags and his flea collars and told his best buddy from down the street, Elliot, that they needed a break from the rigors of couch napping and carpet napping and...lawn napping. Elliot concurred, and they were off to Mexico for some fun in the sun and some beach napping. Each of them knew that no airline would willingly let felines on a flight, especially not middle-class felines like them. So, in a daring effort at T.F. Green Airport, the two of them hit the runway in hot pursuit of a large passenger plane, their tote bags flailing behind them. Toward the end of the tarmac, the front of the plane began to lift. They knew that the back wheels were their only shot. When they began coming off the ground, Shiloh and Elliot leapt with dreams of sipping run by the pool at the resort/spa still in their heads, hoping to grab something, anything. Shiloh stuck his left claw into the rubber of the tire and Elliot clamped on to his best friend's hind leg. As the wheel retracted back into the plane, they regained their footing. They were officially on the flight.

Three hours later, the wheels touched down again. They were in Mexico. They jumped out of the wheel cubby and immediately went searching for cute cats in bikinis. Shiloh had heard such wild stories of Mexican cats, but he'd never seen it for himself. Walking down one of the streets, Elliot noticed something a little strange. "Why does that say New Orleans Motel?" he asked. They each realized their dilemma as a seven foot transvestite wearing a Mick Jagger mask approached them, asking if they knew where his uncle Penelope was. They shuffled past him, or her, and decided to cut down a small alley to book it. During their race down the street, a small group of dirty men, probably washed up go-go dancers, jumped out and mugged them, taking their dufflebags, IDs and spending money. They were left battered in a New Orleans alley with no where to turn, when someone popped out and gave them a break. He tossed two tabs of acid their way and told them to take it easy. Shiloh, seeing no current way out of the situation, popped his tab immediately and Elliot soon followed. They looked up to give thanks, but their charitable friend had disappeared.

The following two weeks were a complete blur, a fourteen day LSD trip that probably should've killed them. Twelve pound felines can't handle large amounts of drugs. That was common sense. Shiloh could only remember something about a voodoo lady and her bleeding goat. When the two cats finally came to, they were decked out in funny-colored beads and riding in the back of what seemed to be somebdy's work van. Shiloh looked to his left and saw a pile of brass instruments sitting next to a man who was holding a saxophone. He called himself Hank, but who could be sure? Hank looked back at them and seemed to be excited that they were awake. "Fellas, our roadies are awake!" he screamed to the front. "Nice," they returned. "You flippin' felines are crazy, man. I can't believe how miffed you were last night," he continued.

He would later fill them in on how he and his two buddies were a saxophone band and were heading to New England for a bunch of shows. Apparently, our feline protagonists met them at a bar called Bungalow Bill's and proceeded to smoke peyote with them until the sun came up. They had been on the road for over ten hours already. The two cats were told that they'd be home in a little over a day. Twenty-four hours of grogginess later, Shiloh and Elliot were dropped off on the street they knew so well. Shiloh walked up to his door and knocked twice.

Written on Wednesday, August 13, 2008 at 1:28 in the A.M.