with too many cats

You know that old lady, the one who lives alone, up the street,with too many cats. She's crazy - or at least that's what you and the rest of your 13-year-old friends call her. In reality, she likely knows what is going on, but maybe she doesn't agree with it, or chooses to ignore it. She's not crazy, she's just in a different time. In a different place. But, you call her crazy, because she lives alone, with too many cats. You know her. In 50 years, I hope not to be her!

But, in the last two months, I had a glimpse. I was the crazy-cat-lady.

Mia and I went on a plane, twice. And she was great. It was me - I was the disaster. I was the spectacle. I was the crazy-cat-lady. When we left Austin, I put her in her carrier and she complained minimally. She tried to push her way out - this picture was her actually putting her small paw up against the mesh of the bag, and whining. Whimpering. Pulling at my heart strings. Whispering - "You're a bad mom". She stopped relatively quickly, because I'm a bad mom and I ignored her. In the car on the way to the airport, not a peep. I pulled her out through security - silent. The security guard even commented on her well-manneredness.

While waiting in the airport I tried to sit in quiet areas, and I tried to talk to her a lot. As Stace pointed out - most people probably didn't know there was a cat in that fashionable bag of mine, and I was the crazy-lady-talking-to-a-bag to most. I ensured that I could pre-board the flight (you know along with people who have legitimate mobility problems and small screaming children). When pre-board was announced, there I was, the crazy-cat-lady, the only one pre-boarding. Families with children were sitting and waiting, while I was rushing down the jetway to the plane. I crawled around the floor of the plane situating her comfortably under the seat, talking to her all the while.

On the flight up, we shared a row with no one. So after take off Mia got her own seat, and I opened the carrier enough to fit my hand in and pet her - while I tried to sleep. She didn't like take off, or landing - who can blame her. But she suffered in silence. As is a cats way, she drooled a lot. I had to ask for copious amounts of paper towels, and I kept talking to the bag, so eventually the flight attendant said to me "What's in here anyway?" I told her it was my cat and she said "Ohhhh! Kitty!" but had this look of relief, figuring out I wasn't insane - maybe.

I think the low-point occurred while I was waiting at Logan for my flight home. My parents were waiting with me, all of us sitting to eat a little and drink coffee (them, not me) and I needed to use the restroom. I left Mia in her bag with my parents and took my purse and went to the restroom. On the way....I talked to my purse. I did. I forgot it wasn't Mia. And I actually spoke to my pocketbook. Crazy-lady-talking-to-a-bag, with too many cats.