I was almost asleep last night when Melani said: “I think you and Trev should go see the monster trucks.”
Going to the Monster Spectacular is a tradition with my son and I. We’ve seen every show – fall and spring – for the past four years. Except we missed them at the Big O in October. When we missed it again in April, I told him we’d see about Ottawa in June.
On Monday, against my wishes, he and Melani rescued a kitten. Now, I’m not against rescuing kittens. I’m pro kitten. But we have a (small) house full of animals and so when our older cat found a scrawny, dirty, seven-week-old kitten in our garden, I called Melani at work.
“No,” I said.
She said: “What?”
“Thud has found a kitten,” I said. “He’s looking after it outside, but he may not bring it in.”
“Do you understand?”
She assured me she did. I tried to catch the kitten anyway; if I could get my hands on it, I could bring it to the pound, as I’ve done with countless strays over the years. I failed.
They tell me the kitten was howling and they could hear it all the way on the second storey. I was unmoved. Then it started to rain. I came home to find Melani and the children had already fallen in love with a pound and a half of filthy feline.
And did I mention sickly? By Thursday we were at the vet, where we spent (because this tangent has a purpose) exactly the amount we would have on two tickets to the Monster Spectacular. The monster trucks were off.
Saturday – the day of the rally – friends left for a three-week holiday in Alaska, leaving Trevor to care for their cat (why does my life revolve around cats?). We popped over there late in the morning to make sure everything was in order and … they had left Trevor his money in advance. It was just the amount we needed for tickets and gas and parking. He gleefully handed it over (“I am this family’s saviour!”) on the understanding that he gets it back in the form of a DSI.
We hit the highway an hour later.