We went on an outing the other day, Rich and I, with our 15-month-old cat. Yes, cat. She’s been a traveler all along. Not by choice, necessarily, but to accommodate a lifestyle we’d established before—and existed when—she arrived, a two-week-old orphan we’d foster until she became adoptable. But sometime during her infancy we decided she was one of those kitties that only a foster family could love. So we kept her.
Lyra has made countless road trips, a majority of them lasting anywhere from 2½ to 6 hours—each way. She’s a pro. And even though my current occupation doesn’t require much traveling these days, we like to keep her practiced. Once a month or so we load Lyra up and drive to someplace woodsy where we can all get out and be one [some] with nature.
There’s a man-made lake not far from here and just past it a semi-secret spot along the river that feeds it. Perfect, we thought, for a timid adventurer and a couple reluctant to parade their cat in public. Besides, a 45-minute car ride would be nothing for Lyra. Come to find out, 41 minutes would have been better for an out-of-practice kitty who had not yet taken her morning poop.
A few miles from our destination Lyra emerged from her crate to check out the back seat. Totally normal. I know you pet Nazis are squirming about that, but her body is so long that we leave the door unlatched in case she needs a full-body stretch. She’s usually back in her house within minutes. I watch her from the passenger seat, alternating between the road and her. She slinks to the floor and sniffs. Her paw extends to tap the carpet. Hmmm. Claws are visible now and she starts to scratch. The following conversation ensues.
Uh, I think she has to go.
Okay.
Lyra folds herself to face the car door and scratches some more.
Yeah, she has to go.
What do you want me to do? There’s no place to pull over.
She assumes her pooping stance.
She’s not gonna wait. She’s gonna poop.
Lyra drops a turd just as Rich lays on the brakes, throws the trani in reverse, and backs up to a turnout just before the bridge. Lyra looses her balance and wobbles over her pile of poop on the carpet, on the floor of Rich’s car. I try to keep her from stepping in it. Rich is out of the car and already on my side with the rear door open.
I can’t let her out here next to the traffic. She’ll run.
That’s okay. She’s too freaked out to poop now anyway.
I grab a tissue from the glove box, reach into the back, grab a turd and fling it out the open door, then the next.
It’s okay, Lyra.
Rich buries the poop in the gravel with an ice scraper.
No problem really. The kitty is slightly traumatized and no doubt embarrassed but Rich and I are surprisingly okay with the whole thing.
You’re not mad she shit in your car?
When you gotta go, you gotta go. She obviously had to go.
We travel the remaining two miles to our destination and park. I jump in the back seat to put Lyra’s harness on and to console her. She cowers in her house and resists my efforts to pull her out. I finally win and set her in my lap to don her harness, thinking of how much better she does without it. Since Lyra is not yet hip to walking with a leash Rich carries her down the path toward the river. He sets her down in the shade of juniper only to pick her back up and move her to a better spot where tufts of grass can protect her from passing boats. We hadn’t considered that kind of traffic when we reconned the place weeks prior. Rich puts her down.
What’s on my arm?
Rich swivels his forearm to inspect it. I look but see nothing.
Kit-tee! Did you poop on me?
I look at Lyra and the poop smeared across the top of her rump. Lifting her tail and its veil of long hair we see she has poop all over her butt. Rich has poop on his arm, his shirt, and the fly of his jeans. I, on the other hand, am totally clean.
We were just as unpracticed as Lyra in traveling with cat and were not prepared for such a predicament. We had the river, at least, and a towel in Lyra’s crate. We’d either pull a MacGyver and use the crude tools available or we’d leave her there. Luckily, she loves water; but a cold river with boats buzzing by does not resemble the tranquil porcelain basins at home. With a little brute force it all worked out—despite looking like we played polo with a tiger. By the way, you can not sponge bath a cat on a rock in a river without drawing an audience.
Next time we’ll at least pack some wet wipes … or, possibly, a diaper bag.
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