I suspect I have a subnormal brain. Thinking wears me out. I’m soothed by long drives, which don’t require much brain activity. So even though the news that my girlfriend would soon be living a thousand miles away was bearing down like a tsunami, I looked forward to another road trip. And I was happy for her, turning the page to a new chapter. Especially because she was to setting out to study medicine, which meant that I might get some concrete answers instead of getting asked, “What’s wrong with you?” all the time. How am I supposed to know? I can’t even figure out why my car misfires, or how it’s running on one cylinder, kind of like my brain. But anyway, the way I pictured this move happening, back when I volunteered to help, was not quite how it happened.
The first unforeseen variable was that my lovely girlfriend, L, claimed that she had only “a few small things” left to take in the car with us. What this actually meant was: several pieces of furniture, a TV, a box of loose kitchenware, several boxes of stuff that somehow felt like they contained both champagne glasses and cinderblocks, one hundred and seventeen coat hangers (each with an item of apparel), a rock collection, seven blankets, fourteen pillows, a Dutch oven, a cowboy hat that cannot get bent, two large aloe plants, six small succulent plants, a yoga mat, five towels, three dumbbells, a bicycle, two massive filled suitcases, a sizeable book collection, school supplies, a projector, twenty pairs of shoes, an air mattress, and, of course, snacks. And that’s not including miscellaneous “knick-knacks.”
Before all of these “small things” were brought to the attention of all participants of the upcoming journey, it was briefly suggested to L that considering a cheap roof rack might be prudent, in the event that extra space was needed. I completely forgot who the person was that made this suggestion, although I do recall this person being told that there were definitely not that many things, and to stop stressing her out.
So the normally spacious, comfortable Corolla was now a two-seater with all the roominess of a kamikaze torpedo. And in addition to the car looking like we were hauling enough supplies to equip a platoon of soldiers for a month under siege, our seating positions were scooted so far forward into ninety-degree postures that it looked like we were about to start throwing salutes. If the Japanese had had these Corollas before the war, I probably wouldn’t be here firing away useless sentences into the blogosphere. At least not with this keyboard.
Now, for the second unforeseen variable, allow me to introduce the titular character of this story – meet Tootie:
L is not only irresistibly attractive, but also irresistibly attracted to spherically-shaped animals. She had been scouring pet shelters online for months, and at some point I found that my computer had seventy six saved bookmarks containing a menagerie of bulbous creatures up for adoption. Then she came across this flabby gem, and was struck by whatever the equivalent of Cupid’s arrow is for pets. I imagine it’s something like the infectious bite of a mythological rat.
“DON’T YOU JUST LOVE HER”
“LOOK AT HER”
When we went to go see the furball, it was quiet, friendly, and calm. We didn’t think anything of it when the foster care woman described her as “vocal.” L couldn’t take her eyes off the paws, in particular, the incredible distance between the paws.
When the cat moved down from the couch, her center of mass sagged and grazed gently back and forth across the floor as she waddled. L practically threw the $80 at the woman. It wasn’t until after we drove a block away that the hairy little meatball banshee started wailing like…
…it’s difficult to describe the sound. Imagine the sound that you think a cat makes. Now imagine that this cat is both a chain smoker and also just retired from its position as lead singer in a screamo death-metal band after having vocal chord surgery. Can you hear it? It’s like a three-way cross between a Formula 1 racecar accelerating through the chicanes of the Nürburgring, a deranged pelican, and a regular duck.
That’s the noise this four-legged bucket of lard makes.
“DON’T TALK ABOUT HER LIKE THAT”
“SHE’S ON A WEIGHT LOSS JOURNEY”
Nevertheless, it didn’t take long for Tootie to touch our hearts, just like Tootie’s heart was probably being touched by coronary heart disease.
Now our upcoming road trip had a third participant. I’ve heard that some cats do well in a car, that sometimes they just chill on the dashboard. The Corolla’s dashboard might be suited to hold an average-sized cat, but unfortunately, Tootie slipped right down like a meatloaf sliding off a dinner plate. But still, the sedan, especially the 2008 Toyota Corolla, is an ideal vehicle for cat transportation. The rear window deck area is a great hideout with plenty of glass for a curious cat to look out of. The doors are low enough so the cat doesn’t lose sense of the horizon, get carsick, and throw up everywhere. And if it does blow chunks, replacement seats are plentiful and sort of inexpensive. Plus, the base Corolla has crank windows that won’t accidentally roll down because of an accidental finger or paw. But more on that later.
Note that in situations such as unforeseen variable one above (“a few small things”), all of the cat transportation benefits of the sedan are rendered invalid.
We left at 6AM. I’m not picky about what we listen to – L loves murder. So we listened to tales of stabbings, shootings, mutilation, dismemberment, poisoning, and other grisly, vicious crimes. L seemed relaxed, and even nodded off a few times, through intermittent rainstorms, heavy winds, long stretches of construction, lane closures, traffic, and police in nooks angling for an easy check for the county department. And don’t forget our third passenger, an inch behind my ear, hollering at every slight thing that was new to her, which was every thing, every time.
The Corolla got 32 mpg.
When we arrived at the halfway point of our trip in Chattanooga, Tootie had been constipated for approximately twenty four hours. Chattanooga has a wonderful pedestrian bridge crossing the Tennessee river, which I think more cities need. As a car enthusiast, I’m one of the biggest supporters you’ll meet when it comes to reversing urban sprawl, safer bicycle lanes, vertical/underground parking, public transportation without crackheads on it, and high-speed interstate passenger rail managed by anyone except Amtrak. The more of the bastards out of my way, the better. I’ve been informed by L that if she hears me say walkability one more time, the relationship will be terminated.
At nightfall we returned to our rental room, a charming, secluded spot between the hills and river without a single other person or sign of civilization in sight, or earshot. This was the perfect time for the murder podcasts to meander their way back into my thoughts. I lay wide awake for most of the night, thinking about the homicidal maniacs that were probably waiting outside. What object around the room would be best suited as a self-defense weapon if they came after L and Tootie? The best answer I came up with was, surprisingly, Tootie herself. Imagine breaking into an apartment only to get hit with a soft, thirty-pound bowling ball square in the jaw.
The next morning I awoke around 4:30 AM to the wonderful sensation of an overweighted paw jammed into my neck. With about three hours of sleep, we set out. L and I have a little tradition of playing Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” each time we get the car going for a long drive. About when Willie was singing “…makin’ music with my friends…” Tootie decided it was time to relieve herself. And boy, did she have to go.
The smell hit us like a double-barreled shotgun blast in an echo chamber. I nearly passed out. L screamed. Tootie screamed. We veered off the road.
The car was barely in park before I sprinted out the door. The gas attack emanating from the vehicle was about as bad as you would expect from a sumo-wrestler equivalent of a cat that had been constipated for thirty six hours and whose favorite food is chicken nuggets. Willie echoed through the quiet hillside. We had landed in between a graveyard and an eerie, dilapidated church. I don’t know which way L flung the poo, but I said a prayer just to be safe either way.
After that auspicious start, things were tame for a few hours, until we hit southern Georgia – then Tootie started laying into it. You’d think she’d be better after her BM, but she was having none of it. At one point, somewhere in Northern Florida, where the temperature and the humidity were both in the 90s, I cranked down the window. I figured Tootie might appreciate a good breeze through her fat-flaps. She had other ideas. Upon seeing the window go below halfway, she let out a shrieking war-cry and launched herself at the opening – Tootie’s last flight.
Chaos is a cat trying to commit suicide via defenestration from your car in the passing lane of the Florida Turnpike in August.
However, on account of her untypical weight distribution, instead of flying out the window, she careened into my shoulder, face first.
L lunged halfway across the car to grab the fat one, whose globular shape had become wedged between my back and the seat, with a paw and a leg outstretched for freedom. The fact that the car stayed on the highway throughout this, with one of my hands on the wheel and the other on the window crank, is a testament to the Corolla’s great high-speed stability.
We arrived in Miami as a bundle of sweat on wheels. The lady who was supposed to unlock the apartment was only five hours late. It was such a satisfaction knowing that instead of sleeping in peaceful Chattanooga, those hours were instead spent underslept in rush hour Miami traffic for no reason. And, inescapably, each proceeding hour seemed to be of greater significance than the last. Soon, we would be apart.
I’ve learned it’s best to be respectful about how we portray our feelings, like farting in public. But in my quiet moments I’ve been taking sullen walks lately, alone with my feeble brain. It’s the nature of society that did this to us. L embarked on a path to find her place in the world, and I couldn’t afford to give up my place just yet. We don’t live in a world that lets us just sit around and love each other, and I suspect it’s because love wouldn’t be what it is if it was all so simple. So in the meantime, all we have to sustain us is the rabid pursuit of capitalism. I mean happiness. The pursuit of happiness.
But even as the forces of society tear us apart, we have a little anchor to ground us lest we stray too far. And that little anchor’s name is Tootie. Good ol’ Toot, keeping us in orbit around each other with the gravitational pull of her sheer mass.
This one’s for the girls.
