So, after reading an entry at HateYourDaddy, I went onto Napster to download He Stopped Loving Her Today (shaddup) and was amazed anew at the freakin’ idiots who can’t spell. Not sure whether I had the title of the song right, I searched under the artist’s name. George Jones.

No files found! said Napster. That was odd, I thought. Maybe Napster was being screwy. So I disconnected from Napster and reconnected. Searched on George Jones. Again, no files found! Okay… Searched on "stopped loving" under the song title. Up came a huge list of He Stopped Loving Her Today, sung by Georg Jones. And Georges Jones. And Geroge Jones. Not a single George Jones in the bunch.

It better not be any of y’all perpetrating the misspellings, ’cause I don’t want to hunt you down and snatch you baldheaded, and you know I will. That sort of thing just gets all over me.

(Note: I have been informed by Himself that Napster has turned on filtering because the court ruled against them, so people are misspelling stuff on purpose. Who’s the dumbass now, huh? That’s right, me.)

Spanky had a vet appointment today. The plan was that I would drop him off around 7, and Fred would pick him up on his way home from work. I started the way I usually do: I got the cheap cardboard carrier down from it’s usual spot over the washer and dryer. I left it out on the stairs while I lifted weights, so that the cats could get weirded out by it’s existence and then get over it. When I was done lifting weights (owwww, my arms…) I went upstairs, carrying the carrier with me, got dressed (since I didn’t want to show up at the vet’s office in bright green shorts and a lavender t-shirt; I don’t generally wear that particular outfit in public), opened the carrier, and went looking for Spanky. He wasn’t hard to find, since he was rolling around in a patch of sunlight in the dining room. As I picked him up, he was wary but happy, purring his fool head off and rubbing his whiskers against my shirt.

Hey Mom, where we going? he asked happily. We going to go have snacks? I like snacks, but Tubby always steals my snacks! Oh hey, you know, you shouldn’t leave that box thing sitting out, because it’s got all those kitty fear molecules all over it from when you take us to the place where they stick things up our butts and scare us. Um, Mom? Mom, that’s not funny, stop trying to scare me! Mom! Mom! I don’t want to go in the box, Mom! They will hurt me at that place and I will drool all over the place and embarrass myself and you in front of the butt-sticking guy! NO! NO BOX!

As I put him in the cat carrier, which opens from the top, he made like a flying squirrel, each of his four paws outstretched as far as possible, each in a different direction. I managed to cram him into the carrier – eventually – and started to close the top, and somehow he came shooting out between the two panels before I could get them locked shut.

"DAMN. IT!" I yelled. The spud came out from the kitchen where she’d been eating her morning bowl of cereal. Spanky ran into the dining room and hid behind the couch, certain that I would never find him.

"Can you get him?" I asked the spud. She bent down and picked him up.

Oh thank you, he said frantically. She was going to put me in the BOX! The BOX! I don’t like the BOX! I like SNACKS but Tubby always tries to steal my SNACK!

I went over and took him from the spud and headed back for the carrier.

Oh Mom! he purred. Where were you? Something bad just happened, but I don’t remember what. Are we going to go lay in a patch of sunlight and stretch? I like to do that. That and snacks. Is it time for a snack?

He was halfway in the box before he realized what was going on. I had a firm grip on him and was certain that this time I’d get the job done. He grabbed at the outside of the box with his front paws, trying to squirm away from me. I forced his front paws into the box, and he managed to get his head outside the box.

"GOD. DAMN. IT. GET. IN. THERE!" I bellowed, sweating more profusely than I had even during the sixth set of Pulley Extensions which kick my ass in a big way. Spanky shrieked in terror, squirmed frantically, and shot out of the box like a greased pig. He zoomed across the room, through the master bedroom, and into the master bathroom. I stood up and panted, swearing loudly and inventively.

"Should I get the other carrier?" the spud suggested. The other carrier is made of hard plastic and opens in the front, instead of on top. I asked her to get it from the downstairs closet and shut the door to the master bathroom so he couldn’t escape.

He hadn’t really thought that one through, apparently.

When the spud came up from the basement, we went into the bathroom together, walking through the crowd of cats huddled in front of the closed door. Miz Poo’s tail was fluffed out as far as I’ve ever seen it. Much as she and Spanky fight, I guess she didn’t care for hearing him yowl in terror.

Spanky was huddled in the closet doorway and eyed the new cat carrier with suspicion. That’s not a snack! he protested.

When I walked toward him, he scooted past me and ran behind the toilet. I put the carrier on the other side, hoping he was stupid enough to run right into it. He didn’t, only curled up as small as possible, perhaps hoping we wouldn’t see him. I tried pushing at him, and he wouldn’t budge. I picked up the spray bottle and sprayed him, hoping it would make him move. It did not.

So I gave up. Called and changed the appointment to tomorrow. Fred’s going to get the damn cat in the damn carrier before he leaves for work.

Spanky has already forgiven me. All it took was a single yummy kitty treat.