Me: “Oh, gosh, was that today? Oh, no, I totally have double-booked myself! I’ve been waiting months to get in to see this specialist, I have no idea how long I’ll have to wait or how I will feel afterwards, I am so sorry to miss it.”
Her: “No worries, it’s tomorrow.”
Me: “OH! That’s just wonderful news. What time is it again?” Trying to think of another excuse under pressure isn’t easy. You’ve already played the doctor card, which is a pretty serious card. They know your family so you can’t invent a birthday / hospital visit / picking up a nephew from the airport. Maybe you can leave your parking lights on overnight?
Me: “I hate to tell you but I’ve got to wait for BCAA / AAA / *AA, my car won’t start!”
Her: “No worries, we’ll come give you a boost.”
Me: “OH! That’s just wonderful news. I’ll let them know I’m okay, then. What time can you be here?” What else, what else? You can’t faint or have some kind of attack, they might take you to emergency, that would take hours, and although you’d miss the event, you’d also miss doing what you planned to do when you planned to miss the event. Oh, I know! A sick cat!
Me: “I’m so glad you fixed my car for me, I appreciate it so much, I can’t tell you. I have a problem though, Zanzibar my cat is sick, I really have to get him to the vet. Maybe I can come over the next time you have a wedding shower / baby shower / home birth.”
Her: “No worries, Frank here, the guy with the truck? He’s a vet.”
Me: “Oh, awesome.” Now what. Pretend the cat got out? They’ll sympathetically take you to the local print shop where you can run off lost posters for the cat you don’t own and helpfully then help you post them up around the neighbourhood.
Me: “Thanks so much. I should wait by the phone now. I’m sorry I totally forgot your gift.”
Her: “No worries, I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
Now that you have a working car, you can nip out to buy a gift, get it wrapped, and pick up a cat.
I wish I was more like a cat, actually. I would then be permitted to sit, gloomy and malevolent, on the bed, watching tv. Just put the remote near my paw. No Cat Whisperer programs, please. We’re untrainable because we are the gods. When I deign to give you the honor of giving me attention, you will gratefully scratch my ears. I would never have to work a day in my life. I’d be strictly ornamental. Don’t forget to feed me. And don’t ever, ever, put me in that contraption that takes me to another, sterile and unfriendly place that smells of dogs. Where they put me on a cold table, manhandle me, give me needles, and stick stuff up my bum. You know of what I speak. That is strictly forbidden. Should you attempt to take me there I will be mad at you for a month and bite your nose when you sleep. I’ll urinate on the stove. So there.
Are we going backwards? (What? I should know? Why should I know. If there’s a way to steer this sinking ship, please enlighten me. No? Well, then, just hang on to your life preserver, then.)
~~
