Traveling with Cats

Ok, why AM I calling a beautiful married woman of my recent acquaintance pet names online? There's a story, ya know.

When I got married, our daughter had two demands to go along with the deal: a new kitten and a jar of pickles. Hey, she was barely twelve; she's thirty six now, and still a bit of a fruitcake, which is just fine with her Daddy.

Well, the kitten was named ("Wait for it!") PJ, after the baby in the Family Circus cartoon strip: the littlest member of the family. It helped Amy to think she was bigger than somebody, I suppose. Shortly thereafter, I was driving my cranky step-daughter and her totally stoned cat in a twenty three foot U-Haul with everything we owned from Arkansas to Indianapolis, to drop her off at her Father's (the reason she was cranky: step-mother straight out of Cinderella and a wus who wouldn't stand up for his daughter; I nearly punched him at her first wedding), then two more days of driving in strange country (Pennsylvania) with a pill down PJ's throat every morning to keep her amiable.

PJ was a bit of a pill after we got to Connecticut; she keep running across the road, getting her hip broken, then spending the night to work the pins out, and to deposit moles as gifts at the garage door each morning. We and the Docs finally gave up, which resulted in a screwy move as she planted her right rear foot, but it didn't keep her from doing what she liked. We kept her until Amy moved to Arizona. Poodge and Peedge were some of her nicknames; as usual (including the current case sleeping in the armchair behind me) I ended up as primary care-giver, and got pretty attached to the little varmint.