Catfight!

I am collecting photos of Fred faster than you can say, "Here kitty, kitty." I think I'm going to be one of those parents with the double-thick fold-out wallet of embarrassing photos of my kid wandering around the bathroom with toilet paper stuck to his butt.

I hadn't intended on posting about my cat again. (I mean, hey, there's only so much kitty cuteness the Internet can handle!) But after my last post, in which I mentioned I might be losing Fred, I feel the need to elaborate ... and kvetch.

Saturday night, Paul and I went to Petco to buy a tag for Fred's collar. It has her name and my cell phone number on it. If you're like those very crafty and totally believable folks on CIS (snortle, snortle), you can ZOOM-ENHANCE this photo until my cell phone number is clearly visible. Then you can prank call me and pretend to be ... well, anybody you want. After all, you're making the prank call.

Anyway, Fred left the house Saturday night with her shiny new collar. Sunday afternoon, I had this voicemail on my cell phone (transcribed verbatim):

[In a nasally teenage valley girl voice] "Hey, I don't know who this is, but MY kitten, someone put a collar on it and it says, um, Freeeed and [my phone number]. And I just wanted you to know that is MY kitten. Didn't have a collar on her, but, um, so... just call me back at [her phone number]. Thank you. Bye."

My initial reaction was: [cringe] "I'm going to lose Fred to some 13-year-old girl."
My second reaction: [smirk] "I can't believe she didn't have a collar on her cat."
My final reaction: [lightbulb going off] "If she didn't have a collar on 'her' cat, then how is it hers?"

I asked Paul to call the girl back, and he did ... three times. She doesn't seem interested in discussing it. Fine. Whatever. I'd like to say that means it's case closed, but when Fred is late showing up for dinner, I start to worry she's been locked up at the house with the racist statue out front. Blargh.

Here's the way I read it: Fred is one of five stray cats who chow down at my house regularly or occasionally. Four are girls (Fred, Derf, Bob, and Ringo) and one is a boy (Karl Marx). Don't ask about my naming schema. Okay, ask. But I don't have a good answer. Anyway, I'm feeding these five cats, and only one -- Derf -- occasionally wears a collar. As far as I'm concerned, stray cats are fair game. Who gave this girl the right to bitch and moan about "her" cat ... when she admits she didn't have a collar on it?

The reason for I collared Fred is simple: She's getting ready to be spayed and chipped. If I'm paying her $300 vet bill, she's going to have a collar. With a name tag. And my phone number. If other families want to feed her, great. Paul and I can't be home all the time, and that's a nice gesture. But when one of my neighbors inevitably calls animal control to pick up the influx of strays that have descended on our neighborhood, I want Fred to be tagged as my cat and not just another stray.

Paul and I have become quite attached to this little girl. She makes me smile, and she gives me a reason to rush home at night. ("Go out for a beer? No thanks ... I need to feed my cat.") I don't think I'm overreacting here, but that's why I have you guys: You keep it real.