Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Staying at the Pet Hotel


I hated it, to say the least.

I never knew when it was going to happen. She would
bring my purple pet carrier out of the cupboard and when she
opened its spring-loaded trap door (emphasis on the word
TRAP), I always fell for it.

I'd step right in. Call me Stoopid. Or maybe the idea of tight, enclosed spaces always intrigues me.

She'd put me and carrier in the car and for the first 10
minutes of the journey, I'd try to guess whether it was the vet
or the Pet Hotel.

If the journey lasted more than 15 minutes, then it was the
PH - a worse fate, because I never knew how long I was going to
be there while she and her hubby took a holiday somewhere.

She has never tried getting a pet sitter to come in to feed
me because she didn't have any contacts and was wary of giving
strangers the keys to their home.

She would register me at the front desk and have a knowing
exchange with front-desk-guy Roy, an exchange I have heard
several times:

Roy: "Ah Nookie, the fierce one, welcome back."

She: "Yeah, so you remember my cat, huh?"

Roy: "Yeah, how could I forget him - I got scratched the
last time."

She: "Oh, sorry about that. He gets so grumpy with
strangers."

Roy: "It's really OK. He always calms down after a few
days!"

She would then fill out a form about my dietary preferences and other health details.

I'm taken, cage and all, and weighed.

She picks an empty "room" in the cattery, usually the first
one on the left as you enter. It has a partial view of the
outside and isn't as dark as those sited further in.

The "room" is a 2m high cage, about one and half m wide. It
is split level, and provided with litter tray, cat toy,
scratching post and feeding bowls.

The worst thing about the place is The Smell - of other cats
and goodness knows what. It just doesn't smell like Home. The next worst thing is scoping out the cat next door if that cage is taken.

By this time, I'm a spitting, yowling, salivating mess and
totally chuffed at the change in environment. She wouldn't
humour me or try to pacify me because she knew she'd only be
scratched.

Perhaps it's because her holiday - and our parting - is
short that she is short on sentiment. She would just make some
nice noises to the keeper in the cattery, asking him to excuse
His Royal Grumpiness, and then she'd be gone.

My simple comforts over the next couple of days would be my
pet carrier and my basket, which she would always bring along.
Once or twice, she put one of her tee-shirts in the basket -
one that she had worn, which smelled of her and was really
comforting.

Days are long at the PH. We cats aren't walked or let out
like the noisy dogs in the kennels.

We see the regular guys come in to feed us or clean our
litter trays. Sometimes we 'inmates' talk to each other across the cages. Some are short-term, like myself; others are boarders there for months on end.

In my several times there, I once picked up more than just other cats' views of the world - I picked up their bugs as well! That happened once, when she sent me to the Pet Hotel before I had my shots that year. I caught a cold from one of the moggies there. *&%$

Moral of the story: Keep your shots current.

The best part is going home. My heart would take a leap when
I see her come through the door to the cattery a few days later
to bring me back home.

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