It was a warm, sunny, summer day in Boston. Megan, Jared, and I were enjoying a wonderful Italian meal in a quaint little restaurant in the north end. We finished our delicious dishes and were sitting, chatting, and enjoying the cool breeze coming in from the window when Megan received a text from one Becca Shim. Little did we know, that text would shape our fate for weeks to come.
It was a simple text, not too long, but it said much more than we read into it that day. Somehow, a cat had wandered into Megan’s house and sat perched upon the windowsill when Becca came home. At first, she thought it was outside, staring at her through the window, but alas, that was not the case. It was stationed between the window and the shade, just daring her to do something about it. Becca did not back down.
She quickly gathered the available troops, Holly and Christina, and laid out a game plan. Becca was to hold the shade and open windows, Holly was to grab the cat, and Christina was to document the whole process on video. The operation started without a hitch, but then Holly got a good look at the cat and became wary of picking it up. I wonder now if Holly knew more than she was telling us.
Becca and Holly switched roles and Becca quickly went to work soothing the cat. She talked to it gently, let it sniff her hand, pet it, then in one swift swoop, grabbed the cat and carried it across the room, down the hallway, into the bathroom, and out the window onto the lower roof in their backyard. The operation was a success … or so they thought.
Megan and I returned from Boston later the next day and watched the video documentation, laughing heartily at the escapades of her brave roommates. Congratulations and high-fives were handed out liberally and we all went about our day, laughing and playing gleefully in the park. Somehow, none of us felt the impending doom that was soon to come crashing down on us all. We had not seen the last of that cat.
The very next morning, as Megan was getting ready for work, she glanced over to see the cat staring at her through the window, sending shivers down her spine. Surely the cat should’ve pranced off into the wild by then, but there was not much she could do about it then as she whisked herself off to work.
Later that day at work, she contacted Becca via Gchat to inform her of the peeping tomcat (see what I did there? I’m a riot). They both began to worry, as girls sometimes do, about the health of this cat that they abandoned on the roof. Could it not get off? Had it eaten anything? Had they just killed the cat? Becca sprung into action and tried to feed it a can of tuna. The cat refused.
Becca then called the ASPCA to see if they would come get the cat. No dice. They could, however, bring it down themselves. Just put it in a box and bring it down they said. Piece of cake they said. They did not know what kind of cat they were dealing with.
Meanwhile, Megan hit me up on the Gchat and gave me the quick 411 on the situation at hand. Having just brought a van down from Boston that was parked on their street, I volunteered my services as an aid in feline extraction. They quickly took me up on my offer. I had no idea what I had just gotten into.
I jumped on the subway and headed down to the old Brownstone where Becca was waiting with an empty box. We went right to work. I hopped out the window onto the roof, petted the cat a few times and snatched it up, carrying it over to the empty box Becca had waiting at the window. She closed the flaps of the box and we headed to the van.
The cat had an extreme aversion to this box. They did not get along. As we were about to get in the van, it popped its head out one end as Becca tried to hold the flaps shut. I quickly grabbed some duct tape, put one finger on the cat’s head, pushed it slowly back into the box, and quickly sealed the box. We threw the box in the van and hightailed it on the ASPCA.
Things were going smoothly, except for the occasional meowing and scratching coming from the box, and we jumped on the FDR to head down to the ASPCA office on 110th. Just as we did so, I heard a faint, “Ummm….” coming from the passenger seat. I looked over to discover Becca with a panicked look on her face, holding the cat down with one hand. He had escaped the clutches of the duct tape and was very unhappy.
This is when we discovered the true origin of this cat. This was no ordinary cat. This cat was from a different world all together. This cat was the direct spawn of Satan and he sat, staring us down, meowing loudly, and foaming at the mouth as we headed down the FDR. Suddenly, the cat jumped up on Becca’s lap sending us both into a panic. She did her best to keep the drool hanging from the cat’s chin from getting anywhere near her. We came to a stop and I attempted to wipe the drool with a wet nap. That was a mistake.
The cat hissed, bared its claws, and jumped off Becca’s lap. There was nothing we could do, the cat from Hell was loose in the van, dripping drool wherever it went. We just shook our heads as we drove even faster towards the ASPCA, and just as we were coming to our exit, we looked to our right to see a shirtless man holding a half-eaten watermelon in one hand, and flexing the other arm as he stared down the oncoming traffic. The only explanation was a sign he had hanging behind him that read, “Men need two things in life, food and pussy.” We would have satisfied his second requirement if our resident pussy wasn’t possessed and running amok in the back of the van.
We pulled up to the ASPCA with a few new smells in the van and attempted to get the stupid cat back in the box. It refused quite rudely, and scratched Becca’s arm. As you can see, this cat had a very poor upbringing. We decided to throw in the towel and enlist the help of professionals. The cat sat defiantly on the recliner in the back of the van, smugly confident after its recent victory.
About half an hour later, someone from the ASPCA came out, snatched the cat in one fell swoop, and dropped it in a small cage like it was his day job. Becca and I just shook our heads as we jumped back in the van and headed home to assess the damage and clean what we could. The ASPCA named the cat “Tobey,” a very misleading name for a direct descendant of the devil himself. After all is said and done, I think I’m going to miss Tobey. He gave me my first true New York City experience. I am now ready to take on the world!
Here’s to you, Tobey, I hope you choke on your own spit.