Yesterday — two days after Christmas — one of our cats died.

Brandy was named after the song by Looking Glass called Brandy, just because I liked the song, and the named suited her, somehow, or came to.  We can’t remember exactly when we got her, but it was something like fourteen years ago.

About three weeks ago we noticed she wasn’t looking great.  She had an unusually skinny tummy.  Her chest looked slightly enlarged, but perhaps this was just in contrast to her tummy.  We attributed her looks to her not eating her food, which consisted of crunchy pellets.  We thought she might have sore teeth, and just wasn’t able to eat the food.  So we switched her to moist food, which she took to right away, and we thought okay, now we’ll see some improvement.

But while she continued to eat the moist food for awhile, she eventually started eating less and less and started spending virtually all of her time sleeping in her cat bed.  Still, we didn’t really think the end was nigh, because she still moved throughout the house, upstairs and down.  But perhaps that was my own naivete.

So far a relatively straightforward story of the death of a cat.  Here’s where it gets slightly more complex.  It did occur to us to take Brandy to a vet.  We have friends that are vets.  But we didn’t want to, because we were afraid that it would cost us a fortune.  A fortune we do not have, especially after Christmas.

We were afraid the scenario would play out like this.  We’d take Brandy to the vet.  The vets are our friends, but they do not give us a break.  We wouldn’t expect them to.  It’s a business, after all.  There would be a fee for examining Brandy. A fee, or several fees, for a series of tests.  Maybe something could be done for Brandy, maybe something couldn’t.   But our collective gut told us that Brandy was fourteen years old, she clearly was not well, and we could easily envision spending a fortune having her looked at only to have her die anyway.

Our decision meant that she died at home.

Well, actually she died en route to the Emergency Animal Hospital where we took her when it became evident that she was in obvious distress.  And my intent there was just to do what I could to reduce her suffering, had she not died en route.

Ultimately her death cost us just over forty dollars.

As I stood in a private waiting room with her lifeless eyes staring reproachfully at, well, not exactly me, but somewhere near me, I had to ask myself if we’d done the right thing.  Initially I thought no, we screwed this up.  The cat suffered needlessly.  It had been dying for days, probably lamenting its inability to speak English, thinking you fools, can’t you see I’m wasting away here, don’t you care, DO something, HELP ME!

But apart from switching its food and petting it more than we usually did of late we did nothing concrete to help our poor cat.

I was angry with the vets, because we could not count on going to them for assistance with incurring potentially exorbitant fees, with little or no hope for a positive outcome save assuaging our guilt.

I thought of my grandfather, who once gave me a potato sack full of kittens and asked me to take them down to the cow trough to drown them.  I was eleven, the age my daughters are now.  Thinking that I had to do as he asked, I dutifully tried to drown the kittens through a veil of tears, but I didn’t think to put a heavy rock in the sack with the kittens, so when I placed the sack in the cow trough the kittens just cried piteously and scrambled en masse to stay afloat.

“Can’t do this,” I told my friend June Forrest, and I freed the kittens and ran away to hide until my sister found me and brought me back to my grandparent’s farmhouse, where my mother and grandmother asked my grandfather what the hell he was thinking before baking June and me a cinnamon apple to make us feel better about the whole unfortunate episode.

My grandfather clearly had a completely different attitude toward the fate of animals on his farm, and almost certainly would not have paid the forty some dollars I paid the Emergency Animal Hospital to dispose of my poor, dead cat.

Forty some dollars.  I was upset.  Not at the forty dollars, but at the death of my cat, and at the way I felt I had failed her, and as I stood there wiping my tears away I was fairly certain that when I die it will be equally miserably, or ought to be, because this was a living, feeling being, and why should I get to die any better?  Having failed her.

While I was wallowing in my abject misery a representative from the Emergency Animal Hospital came in and tried to sell me my cat’s ashes for eighty bucks or so.  And when she failed to sell me my cat’s ashes she tried to sell me my dead cat’s pawprints in an attractive memorial ceramic tile for something like two hundred bucks.  WTF?  (I suggest pronouncing the preceding out loud in full for the complete effect.)

They blatantly tried to profit from my cat’s death and my sorrow and my guilt.

I paid them the forty bucks to dispose of my cat and that was all.  I donated two towels to their cause.  Two towels that I had brought along ostensibly to make Brandy more comfortable, but really so that we wouldn’t have to touch her soiled body as we placed her in the cat carrier to take her to the hospital.

I was mad at the Animal Hospital for trying to profit from my cat’s death, and I was mad at our vets for creating a climate where we were afraid to take her in to be checked out for fear of being bankrupted.  And I was mad at myself for not being willing to do that and for feeling guilty about it.

It’s only a goddamned cat, my grandfather would have told me.

But dammit, I had liked that cat.

That afternoon we bought pet insurance for our dog, because we don’t want to go through this with him.  We didn’t buy it for our surviving cat, because she’s also fourteen, and also because we can’t afford it.  It’s over forty bucks a month for the dog alone, and there’s STILL a five hundred deductible for each accident/condition the dog suffers!

My grandfather would no doubt have a word for sentimental, animal loving folk like myself.

That word is fool.

Rest in peace, Brandy.

I’m sorry I wasn’t able to do more for you when you were alive.

You were a fine girl

And now time for the Mahoney Family Christmas Letter, a Mahoney Family Tradition for two solid years in a row:

Merry Christmas Everyone!

Where did we leave off after last year’s letter?

Let’s see, we celebrated Christmas, and then it was January, and we took the Christmas decorations down (or at least, Lynda took them down, which is only fair, considering she put them all up), then it was February, and Keira and Erin turned eleven, and suddenly our children seemed all grown up.  How grown up?

Here’s an example.  Last summer we took them Tree Orienteering in Moncton, New Brunswick during our bi-annual Maritime trek.  Or rather, their father took them Tree Orienteering.  Because their mother would know better than to ever do such a reckless thing.  What their father didn’t know until he got there was that tree orienteering takes place thirty feet above the ground, on ropes and old tires and rickety wooden platforms.  There was NO WAY the girls were going to do this.  Or ought to be allowed to do it.  But they insisted and completed the entire orienteering course with panache because somewhere along the way they’ve morphed into brave adventurers.  Which also probably explains why they barely squawked during their annual flu shot this year.

The girls continue to develop their artistic side, writing and illustrating their own impressive stories and comics, and they’ve joined the Glee club at school.  We have heard them perform, and we are impressed.  Oh, and they’re really smart and pretty, if we do say so ourselves.

On the animal front we continue to own and operate the Mahoney family zoo, now in its twelfth year.  You may be pleased to learn that we plan to open the zoo to the public soon.  There’s plenty to see.  You’ll be awed at how much vomit the cats can produce in a week.  You’ll marvel at how far our guinea pigs can fling their poo.  You’ll relax as our dog licks (and possibly pees on) your foot.  You’ll wonder why anybody would ever own a frog.  I should mention that the dog, Maxwell, is currently enrolled in a tricks class where he is learning to wave, roll over, spin, bow and make odd grunting noises (oh wait, he already knew that one).

A bit about the so-called grown-ups: Joe continues his dubious work for the Canadian Broadcorping Castration, where he toils as Chief Peon of A Bunch of People Who Fix Things.  Lynda continues her noble work dispensing pharmaceuticals to the suffering masses.  On the home front Joe continues to demonstrate a remarkable inability to fix things, although he did enjoy ripping up the carpet this past summer.  And Lynda continues to impress with her uncanny ability to make our home a wonderful place to be.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays Everyone!

Joe, Lynda, Keira, Erin (and the zoo: Maxwell, Chloe, Brandy, Lexi, Speedy, George, Canyon, and Storm)

The last time I went to the Canadian National Exhibition was twenty-six years ago, as near as I can figure.  I was about twenty and it was me and a bunch of unruly roommates.  The only thing I remember about the whole experience was the roller coaster.  Coming from PEI, I’d never been on a roller coaster before.  I loved it!  But that was about all I loved about the Ex that visit.  Because as I said it’s all I actually remember about the Ex that visit.  I’m not quite sure why that is, but knowing me and my roommates at the time, probably the roller coaster is the only thing we did that visit.

So I went back today with my family, and it was a completely different experience.  Mostly because my wife took firm hold of the reins and managed the entire experience like the sane, sensible adult that she is.  Rides in the morning, shows in the afternoon.  The rides were nothing spectacular, but they were pleasant enough.  The girls enjoyed them.  The shows were nothing spectacular, but they were entertaining enough.  We all enjoyed them well enough (Superdogs, some kind of Rock Figure Skating show called Beyond Broadway, I think, and a hypnotist).

We also attempted the Air Show, but that was pretty much a bust.  A major disappointment for me, actually, as I love planes.  The problem was we walked forever to get to a good spot to see the show, then waited forever for planes that never came.  Okay, that’s not entirely true.  One cool jet started the show, then after an interminable wait three guys parachuted out of a plane and took about twenty minutes descending, then a lame plane limped out towing a glider, then a goofy passenger airliner kept doing pointless circles above us, then we lost interest and left.  Later, in between the other shows I caught glimpses of the Snowbirds and a couple of other cool jets, but it seems if you really want to enjoy the air show, you have to devote the entire afternoon to it.

The weather was acceptable.  Hot and humid, but better at the CNE than we understand it was at home, away from the lake.  It rained once, but we were inside watching a show at the time, so it didn’t bother us.

The food was less than spectacular, but not a complete write off.  We ate both lunch and supper in the Food Building, which had the best variety and was out of the hot sun.  My wife had a Pita that fell apart and wasn’t particularly tasty.  I had a pulled pork sandwich that wasn’t particularly tasty but didn’t fall apart.  The girls had pizza that was perfectly fine for them.  For supper my wife and I both had hamburgers that have yet to make us sick, and the girls loved the 99 cent spaghetti on offer, and you can’t argue with prices like that.

So, I would give the CNE a solid six and a half out of ten on the Mahoney family enjoyment scale.  Points for modest entertainment, edible grub, inoffensive rides, plus additional points for the girls getting along great and the positive family vibe that still persists even as we try to get them into bed now, woefully late at night.

I do miss the roller coaster, which apparently was dismantled years ago, but roller coasters are what Canada’s Wonderland is for.  Which I believe is next on the agenda…

My girls have been talking about fame a lot lately.

I used to want to be famous, like them.

Now I just want to be pretty.

Neither are going to happen anytime soon, at least in my case.

Anyway, we were talking about fame at the zoo.  And I said, girls, it’s better to be respected than famous.  Take a look at that rhinoceros, for instance.  Everybody comes here to look at it.  They all want a glimpse of that rhinoceros.   In a way, that rhinoceros epitomizes fame.  Everybody knows the rhino, and in return, the rhinoceros has little or no privacy.  Of course, it’s worse when you’re a famous rhinoceros.  It’s not like you’re gonna get the best seats at the restaurant when you’re a rhinoceros, or get to drive a porsche.  You just have people gawking at you all the time.  But sans good seats and porsches it’s the same general idea.

I asked the girls if they understood, and one said, “What does epitomize mean?” and the other said, “Dad, that’s a hippopotamus, not a rhinoceros.”

And anyway, they went on to say, we don’t really want to be famous, we want to own a pet store.

I was pleased.  Now I don’t have to worry about them becoming famous, and I’m certain they’ll be respected pet store owners.  Better yet, if they decide they want to sell rhinoceroses and hippopotamuses, I’m confident they’ll be able to tell them apart.

December 12, 2010

Merry Christmas Everyone!

Yes it’s true, this is the first ever (and quite possibly the last) Mahoney Family Christmas Post (adapted from the Mahoney Christmas Letter).  It’s quite exciting, because exactly what this post will contain is anyone’s guess.  It could be anything.  At this point in the post we really have no idea.  We’re aiming for a dab of stirring drama and just a hair of gentle wit, but we’ll settle for people being able to read it to the end without falling asleep or becoming nauseated.

Holiday letters are frequently an occasion to trumpet family triumphs and accomplishments over the previous year, a lovely tradition that we would happily engage in if only we had any accomplishments worth even French Horn-ing let alone trumpeting.  Alas, we are but a modest family whose triumphs include staying out of debtor’s prison and cooking food that our daughters will actually eat from time to time.

Honestly, our greatest accomplishment in this or any other year is our wonderful daughters Keira and Erin, a constant source of magic in our lives as well as the source of a truly staggering amount of socks on the floor.  Before those two came along we had no idea two humans could go through so many socks in a single day.  And that is not the only thing they’ve taught us.  They’ve also taught us how annoying we can be, and how being annoying is not an effective means of getting them to brush their teeth or change their clothes.  We have no idea what an effective means of getting them to do those things is, and if any of you do we beg of you to please call us immediately, preferably before we finish writing this letter.  But seriously, while raising a family is easily the hardest thing we’ve ever done, raising horses sure would have been a lot more profitable.  Okay, what we really meant to write is raising a family is without a doubt the best thing we’ve ever done or ever will do (although camping at Bon Echo comes a close second).

People are always asking us what’s new and this year we actually have something significant to tell them.  It’s called having to go outside frequently to scoop up poo in a plastic bag and having our hands shredded on a daily basis by a set of razor sharp teeth.  It also goes by the name of Maxwell and it looks something like this:

Maxwell is twelve weeks old and a welcome  addition to the zoo family, which also  includes two cats, two guinea pigs and an  imaginary giant pink rabbit.

What else?  Let’s see, Joe is still at the CBC,  Lynda is still in retail pharmacy although at  a new location, and the girls still haven’t  brushed their teeth (but there are promising  sounds from the bathroom).  Keira and Erin  are taking art from a retired principal and  love to write and draw comics and stories.    They will almost certainly finish their first  novels long before Joe; he claims to be on  page three hundred and thirty-two of a novel he confidently told people he would finish about a year and a half ago, and that he is confidently telling people now he will almost certainly finish before the universe dies an ignominious heat death.

As for Lynda, she spends much of her spare time fixing up the house, which spends much of its spare time decaying, assisted by Maxwell, who spends much of his spare time chewing on baseboards.

And with that the Mahoney Family Christmas Post came to an abrupt end.

On behalf of the entire zoo family we wish each and every one of you a Merry Christmas, a Happy New Year, and a future filled with as much health, happiness and prosperity as you can bear.

Sincerely,

Lynda, Joe, Keira, Erin (the zookeepers)

And:

Chloe, Brandy, Maxwell, Speedy, Lexi (the zoo)

I promised someone I would post a picture of the Schmoops here (you know, the ones making all the cool cartoons below).

According to Grondzilla I’m allowed to post one such picture a year, so, without further ado:

If you live in Ontario you’ve probably heard all the kerfluffle about what the Ontario government proposes doing to pharmacists in this province. My wife is a pharmacist, so we have a vested interest in the battle. There’s a very real possibility of her losing her job.

Despite my obvious bias, I am trying to understand both sides of the argument. Here’s the situation as I understand it:

Pharmacies sell brand name drugs and generic drugs. The generic drugs are cheaper than the brand name drugs, but they’re supposed to work just as well. (There is some debate over this; generic drugs are made from slightly different ingredients, but the medicinal properties are the same.) From what I understand generic drugs are about 50% of the cost of brand name drugs in Ontario. Elsewhere they’re about 25% of the cost of brand name drugs.

The Ontario government reimburses certain patients (the elderly, those on social assistance) the cost of the generic drugs they purchase. They believe that generic drugs should only cost 25% as opposed to 50% the cost of brand name drugs. That way they would be required to fork over a lot less money. So they’re trying to force the drug companies to reduce the price of generic drugs.

The government believes that generic drugs are so expensive in Ontario (yet still less expensive than brand name drugs) because the drug companies spend a lot of money getting pharmacies to stock their particular generic drugs. They give pharmacies money called “professional allowances.” The government believes that if drug companies were not allowed to give pharmacies this money (which they call rebates, or even kickbacks), the money saved (about $750 million) would allow the drug companies to reduce the cost of their generic drugs. And if the cost of these drugs is reduced, it will save the government money that could better be spent elsewhere (about $500 million).

Makes sense, right?

Unfortunately, many pharmacies are small operations that claim they’re only able to squeak by because of these professional allowances. Without them, they feel they’ll be forced to reduce hours and services. Many pharmacies may be forced to close their doors altogether, they simply won’t have sufficient profit margin to continue. The government disputes this, claiming that up to seventy percent of the rebates wind up lining the pockets of pharmacy owners. The money is supposed to go to direct patient care, such as:

* A pharmacist’s time in explaining to patients how and when to take their drugs.
* The cost of delivering drugs to seniors.
* Flu clinic days.
* High-blood-pressure clinics.

(Quoted from here)

According to government audits there has been some abuse of the system by pharmacy owners, including not spending the money on what they’re supposed to, not fully disclosing what the money’s been spent on, and in at least one case, engaging in a resale scheme triggering multiple professional allowance payments. A few bad apples among pharmacy owners may be jeopardizing the system for everyone.

There are those who argue that it’s okay if a few pharmacies close, claiming there are about two thousand too many pharmacies in this country compared to the per capita ratio in the United States (although it could just as easily be argued that there are too few pharmacies in the U.S.). Dalton McGuinty, the premier of Ontario, admits that his plan may result in pharmacies closing. He’s okay with the idea of throwing pharmacists, technicians and other related staff out of work, though he won’t say how many it’s okay to throw out of work. The Liberal premier has said it’s not his government’s job to ensure the survival of smaller pharmacies (which actually sounds like something former conservative premier Mike Harris might have said).

Like most things in life, the issue is not completely black and white. Probably drug companies shouldn’t have to pay pharmacies to stock their drugs. And drug prices shouldn’t be artificially inflated. But if pharmacies don’t stock generic drugs, they’ll stock brand name drugs, which are 50% more expensive, and would ultimately cost the Ontario government a lot more.

Without professional allowances, pharmacies probably won’t be able to provide services at their current levels. To compensate, Premier Dalton McGuinty is committed to placing $100 million of government money back into pharmacies. But there are strings attached. There are plans afoot to empower pharmacists to do more than dispense drugs. They’ll be permitted to give injections to patients, for one thing. To get McGuinty’s money they’ll be required to do this sort of thing.

Some pharmacists do not welcome this. Being a pharmacist is already a full time job. They have little interest in adding to ever increasing workloads. It’s hard for them to get excited about having to give injections to patients. They’re pharmacists, not nurses. (What next, sponge baths?)

Pharmacists fear the McGuinty government will be taking far more out of the current system than they’re putting back in. If hours are cut back, pharmacists laid off, and pharmacies closed, patient care has to suffer.

To me it all sounds like another rather dodgy drug business, the heroin trade in Afghanistan. Few would condone the sale of heroin. The whole business should just be shut down, right? But what about the plight of farmers in Afghanistan dependent upon the sale of heroin for their livelihood? Continue to sell heroin, people suffer. Raze the farmers fields, other people suffer. A solution no doubt exists, but it isn’t cut and dried. The system is flawed, but it can’t be fixed overnight without hurting people.

So it is with the situation in Ontario. The current system isn’t perfect. But the proposed fixes hastily carried out will hurt too many people. The two sides, who aren’t even talking to one another anymore, need to get back to the table. They need to take the time to hammer out a proper solution. This may take a bit longer, but a lot less people will get hurt.

For more information and an opportunity to take a stance on this issue, visit Stopcuts.ca.

The Easter Bunny worked hard last night preparing quests for the girls.

And this morning the girls got up bright and early at 4am to carry out their quests. Their father got up bright and early at 4:02am to shoo them back to bed, where they lay wide-eyed, wide awake and staring into the night until 5:30am when they got up once more, and knocked on their parent’s bedroom door to ask permission to finally carry out the Easter Bunny’s quests.

Voila, this year’s Easter Bunny Quest. Some of the clues are pretty silly, but you have to keep in mind that all sorts of children all over the world expect this sort of thing from the Easter Bunny. That poor Bunny’s creative well must get pretty dry after a few million households:

E Clue #1
Hello my friend E, it’s another Easter Year
Full of Easter Chocolate, and full of Easter Cheer
The cheer you can find easily, it should be part of life
For the chocolate look inside the shoes of Joseph’s wife

E Clue #2
Thank you for your note, my dear, I’m glad you think I’m cute
Flattery will get you lots of things, including Easter loot
But you still have to work for it, nothing is for free
Your next clue may cost you one hot cup of Pekoe Tea

E Clue #3
You don’t have to go too far to find the next big Easter clue
I promise not make you look inside another smelly shoe
You might get kind of frosty though, if chocolate is your dream
Because you’ll have to check out something kind of like ice cream

E Clue #4
I know a rabbit tall and furry, who once was short and sleek
He has ears that stick up straight with mannerisms meek
This poor old rabbit’s fraught with worry, he likes to whine and grouch
He likes nothing better than to hide beneath the couch

E Clue #5
Easter Bunny’s secret power is to fly quite fast
And when beneath the moonlight, no shadow doth he cast
The Easter Bunny’s breath is sweet because he likes his grapes
And he’s been known to nibble on the plants behind the drapes

E Clue #6
Have you ever had a dream you felt you could not share?
Have you ever danced a jig with Ferdinand the Bear?
Have you ever kissed a cat? Or pet a purple dog?
Have you ever found a clue beneath a smiling frog?

E Clue #7
Some houses can be dangerous because of all the cats
Cat’s do not like rabbits and we sometimes have our spats
Like the time two cats chased me out the door and then they locked it
A story that has nothing to do with the clue inside your pocket

E Clue #8
Are you getting tired of all this running around the house?
I hope you liked this game and that you don’t think I’m a louse
Take care my friend, and if by chance you go for a drive this Sunday
I hope you like what you discover inside your parent’s Hyundai

K Clue #1
Hello my friend K; thanks for your kind note
You should know I will not freeze because I have a coat
My coat is warm and fuzzy; it’s actually my fur
Now go and find a clue downstairs where kitty cats do purr

K Clue #2

The clues are getting harder because you my girl are smart
I cannot make them easy lest you get a big head start
If the next clue you can find beneath something that heats
One step closer you will be to yummy Easter treats

K Clue #3
I’ve heard that you’re a fan of music sung in many keys
Like Lady Gaga, Owl City and the Black Eyed Peas
I think a clue to do with music we can well afford
You might find just such a clue on a black keyboard

K Clue #4
Once I knew a rabbit who was friendly but not wise
This rabbit he ate nothing except hamburgers and fries
He grew so roly-poly I could roll him down the street
And there’s a clue inside a shoe that couldn’t fit upon his feet

K Clue #5
They say that nothing’s free in life; I suppose that this is true
Some things cost so much that it can make you kind of blue
But Easter treats are great because they’re almost free you see
If, that is, you figure out the clue beside the Wii

K Clue #6
Have you ever loved someone that made your heart go all a-flutter?
Have you ever sailed upon a sea of peanut butter?
Have you ever climbed upon an angry whomping willow?
Have you ever found a clue beneath a sofa pillow?

K Clue #7
Easter Bunny’s secret power is a fuzzy smile
Easter Bunny’s second cousin is a guy named Lyle
Easter Bunnies rarely give out any kind of jewels
But they’ve been known to hide their clues right next to father’s tools

K Clue #8
I hope you’ve liked this game my friend, and that you’ve found it fun
And that you’re not too sad my friend to find it almost done
Here’s a thought to cheer you up; the treats are not too far
You have but to look inside a certain silver car!

Of all the writing I’ve ever done, all the time I’ve taken with some of it, the editing, the revising, everything, this piece, which I dashed off in a matter of minutes and lightly revised once if at all, may be my favourite.

If only everything I wrote came so easily.

By Joe Mahoney

I want to tell you about my cat. Actually, I have three cats, but the one I want to tell you about is named Blossom. The story begins with my father-in-law, who decided to move out of his house in the country into an apartment in Moncton, New Brunswick. He needed a new home for his eight year old cat… Blossom. So my wife generously decided to add Blossom to our already (in my opinion) full roster of felines.

They decided to fly Blossom from Moncton to Toronto. They drugged her and packed her up and somehow it became my responsibility to pick her up at the airport, after work.

I’m at work on the day and it’s four o’clock in the afternoon and I’m starting to feel ill. Stomach flu kind of thing. I tough it out to the end of my shift, but I can’t go home. No, I have to go pick up this cat at the airport. But before I do that, I’ve also agreed to pick up a Disney doll as a birthday gift for a friend of my girls. I’m feeling increasingly sick, but I hightail it off to the Eaton Centre or whatever they’re calling it these days to pick up the doll. Then it’s back on the subway to where I’ve parked the car, and off to the airport.

Traffic getting out of Toronto sucks bigtime. It’s bad enough going east to Whitby where I live, but west on the QEW to the 427 up to the airport is worse. Fortunately, there’s a plastic bag in the glove compartment that I can barf into if I begin to feel even worse. It’s stop and go until about half the way up the 427. I make it to the airport without woofing my cookies. Thinking all the while, I don’t even really like cats (more of a dog person, really).

I find the proper gate at the airport with the help of a friendly seventy year old fellow whose job it is to give directions. At the gate I ask an attendant if my cat is likely to be unloaded there. She says yes. I wait. Everybody gets off the plane, including several dogs. But no cat.

I approach the attendant and inquire about the cat. She says, you mean the cat was travelling alone? I say yes, it’s a very sophisticated cat. She says, well in that case you must pick the cat up at the special cat delivery terminal located approximately three kilometres west of the airport proper. I ask her how to get there. She has no idea.

I visit my seventy year old friend. He has never heard of the special cat delivery terminal. I revisit the attendant. She unearths a phone number for the special cat delivery terminal. I revisit my seventy year old friend, who lets me use his phone. I phone the special cat delivery terminal. I get an answering machine. I leave a message asking them to phone my seventy year old friend.

I wait. I refrain from barfing. I imagine being home in bed. I really want nothing more than to be home in bed. I refrain from barfing some more.

The phone rings. It is the guy from the special cat delivery terminal. He gives me directions as my seventy year old friend spreads an enormous map across his desk and marks on it with a red felt pen. I repeat the directions aloud. “Turn right at the second Sunoco,” I say. “No no no!” the guy says. “At the second Su NO co!” I’ve pronounced it wrong. Apparently you can’t get there if you pronounce it wrong.

The directions make little sense. I decide to take a cab. I approach a cabbie and he’s all set to take me until I mention the cat. “No cats!” he cries.

Armed with my seventy year old friend’s map, I hop in my van and pick my way across north Toronto in search of the special cat terminal. Lo and behold there’s the second Su NO co. I turn right and wend my way down an enormously long, desolate road, past large, eerie buildings and arrive after much head scratching at what can only be the special cat terminal, where, one can only suppose, they land the planes and disembark all the cats before taking off again to fly the human passengers three kilometres further on to the special people terminal.

Inside the special cat terminal is a long, L shaped desk at which several unsmiling people are busy clicking away at special computer terminals. I’m feeling even sicker if such a thing is possible and not a little annoyed. “I’m here to get my cat,” I announce to one unsmiling face. He gets me to fill out a form and tells me to go around the corner and wait and somebody will get my cat.

I fill out the form and go around the corner and wait for somebody to get my cat. I wait. I wait and I wait and I wait. I am waiting in a huge hanger type space, filled with mysterious boxes and zero human activity. Finally I hear a shuffling. I spy an elderly security guard approaching. “Excuse me,” I say. “I’m looking to get my cat. Can you help me get my cat?”

“Your cat?” he says. “I can’t get you your cat.”

“Look, I just want my cat,” I tell him. “I’m as sick as a dog and I’ve been trying to get my cat for about three hours now and I just want to get it and go home.”

“Come with me,” he says. “I can show you your cat.” And he leads me across this vast space to a special door, which he unlocks, and ushers me inside. And there’s Blossom, whom I recognize from visits with my father-in-law. Filled with relief, I pick up Blossom’s case and prepare to take her home with me.

The elderly security guard, seconds before a paragon of peacefulness, freaks out. “What do you think you are you doing?”

“I’m taking my cat home with me.”

“You can’t take that cat home with you!”

I can’t believe my ears. She’s right there… I’m holding onto her case, perhaps I could make a dash for it… I sigh, a sigh perilously close to a barf. “Why can’t I take my cat home with me?”

He gives me this song and dance about procedure and I’ve had enough. I storm back to the L shaped desk and all the dour faces and I shout, “Look! I just want my cat! Will somebody please give me my cat?” And I storm back to the place I had been told to wait.

I do not recall actually receiving the cat or exiting the building. I can only hope the process was carried out peacefully and with a minumum of vomit. I do recall travelling home on the 401 with Blossom on the passenger seat beside me. I spoke to her soothingly. As tired and as sick as I felt, I suspected she felt even worse. I tried to be friendly, to welcome her to her new home, to make her feel better. I don’t know that I succeeded.

But I did get her to her new home. Where she lives with two new cat enemies, er, friends.

All three of whom I’m allergic to.