Phobic, in a bad way.

I am terrified of the intrusive powers of the Anti-Cruelty society.

A little over two weeks ago Amy and I returned from ND and found ourselves living in a little apartment in a big city, far far away from family. Sometimes we have friends over, but it's not the same as having a family. So we got a cat. It wasn't completely impulsive... but we might have had mixed motivations. Anyways, I'm not getting into that.

Regardless, we have a cat. She's awesome! She comes when we call her, loves to play games, sits on my shoulder like a pirate's parrot, and has an awesome name: Marshmallow. She is incredibly affectionate and her latest new game is to wait under the desk, chair, table, or behind doors and fake pounce on our legs when we walk by. She doesn't attack us, and isn't being malicious, she just likes to play hunt with us. It's absolutely adorable.

But then I remember where we got her from. The ruthless, coldhearted, glorified pound that needs so much help overcoming the negative stigma from having a building that looks like a lab for mad-scientists that it puts the words anti-cruelty right into its name.

The Anti-Cruelty Society.

When I read this I don't think, "Oh, a group of people who care about animals," I think, "Slick advertising - $10 bucks says they sell the rejects to hotdog vendors." Okay, I just made that up. But doesn't it seem a little hokey? "Oh yes, we're the anti-cruelty society! No cruelty here, ho-ho-ho, we're the saints of animal rescue!"

What gives me the heebyjeebies is that when we "rescued" Marshmallow from the wannabe despots they made us sign a form that gave them the right to visit, unannounced, whenever they want. WHENEVER THEY WANT? I just gave strangers the key to my back door? For crying out loud, why don't they just put it in plain English, "Yes, give us your money and take home the kitty but don't you ever let your kitty get hungry or her kitty box dirty or her dish unsanitary or let her shots get out of date because WE'LL KNOW, AND WE'LL TAKE YOU TO COURT AND LOCK YOU UP FOR INFINITY TIMES THREE!!!!"

It's all just a little Faustian if you ask me. Maybe I missed the check box that allowed me to include my soul in the deal...

Anywho, the reason I'm all up in a twist is because little Marshmallow (who isn't so little anymore ever since she actually started eating all of her allotted 1/3 cup of kitty food for kitties her size) came pre-spayed. Quite the convenience if you ask me. Except the stitches weren't out yet and we had to take her home with two little sutures in her tummy. We were told to bring her back at a certain time for them to take them out, but we were busy and couldn't go.

But we didn't sweat it. We figured that we could just call and reschedule, right? Wrong.

Instead, I got an answering machine that didn't mention anything about clinic reschedulings. Still, I persisted, and left my name, number, situation, name, and number again, and then hung up. I had done all I could do, short of barging in with a kitty under my arm and an uzi in my other hand like a weak-sauce impression of Rambo or something. Not that Rambo ever had a kitty emergency...

So we waited and waited and waited. And didn't hear anything back. And waited some more. And I became impatient.

And [GASP] I took matters into my own hands.

I got my scissors, cleaned them up, and went snip, snip, tug, tug. No more sutures.

Marshmallow initially hated me, but after a few hours she realized I'd removed the bane of her self-cleaning regimen and I was her new hero. Trumpet noise: dah-dah-dah-dahhhhhh

Except now I have this nagging spectre of doom stalking me, threatening to play pounce for real. The face of the nagging spectre? There isn't one. It's hooded, and masked, and all that comes from the slits that are vaguely in the right region for nose holes is a vaporous cloud. A haze of guilt and impending doom. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID. YOU DON'T HAVE A VETERINARY LICENSE. YOU PERFORMED SURGERY ON YOUR COUCH. YOU WILL PAY. YOU WILL PAY.

Pretty soon the apartment is swarming with Anti-Cruelty undercover agents. Marshmallow is being crated, I'm being dragged off, and Anti-Cruelty agents are trashing my place. I'm hauled off to the Anti-Cruelty Re-education Center (read: Gulag), Amy has to move in with her parents, and Marshmallow get resold under a new name. When her new owners ask about her past, the Society (as the like to refer to themselves) just says that there isn't any on file!

All this and more. And I think she has a booster shot coming up...