The time for Watson’s rabies vaccination was drawing nigh. The problem? The gray-and-white tabby I found in a barn as a wee feral kitten years ago lives with me only part-time. Mostly, he hangs out with neighbors who feed him canned tuna and let him curl up on their laps and watch TV. Maybe even sleep with them. Who can blame him?
I once lived on a two-barn farm with cats galore, so I have a decades-long relationship with Boyd Veterinary Clinic that goes something like this: If you find/catch a cat that needs medical attention and we’re open, bring it on in.
Since I already had an appointment at Dr. Boyd’s couple of weeks ago for my dog Kamala to have a wounded ear flap treated, it only made sense to take Watson along, too. He’d shown up as he sometimes does on warm, sunny days and was napping atop my seldom-used gas grill.
A long time ago, I bought a cat carrier at a yard sale for one dollar. It fit Watson just fine when he was young and lean, but after years of canned tuna and TV-watching, it’s a mite too snug. To use the carrier, I would need to set it on its end with the door open, ease him in head-first and then latch it before he could figure out what was going on, all while trying to avoid being bitten and scratched. So I settled on Plan B, the seldom-used cat house in my garage. It’s an old cube-shaped ice chest with an entrance/exit hole cut into one of the sides. I can raise the lid and keep it stuffed with clean, dry straw.
As to whether Waston ever uses the cat house, who knows? He comes and goes whenever the spirit moves him.
That ice chest, I decided, could definitely double as a cat carrier. The only problem was how to seal the opening while still allowing Watson to breathe. The answer sat on a nearby shelf: a metal coffee can almost exactly the same diameter as the hole. I took it inside, punctured the bottom several times with an ice pick and inserted the can in the hole. Perfect. Then I put the ice chest near my front door, from which I could see Watson still snoozing on the grill. I raised the lid of my new cat carrier and tiptoed outside to catch him.
It was easy. He was so drowsy that I popped him in the ice chest without incident and slammed the lid shut. But within seconds he pushed the coffee can out and ran upstairs to my bedroom, where he hid way up under the bed.
This was war, and I wasn’t ready to give up. I covered the opening with duct tape in an intricate pattern designed so he could breathe but NOT escape. I rattled a plastic jug filled with Kamala’s mini-Milk Bones. Amazingly, down the steps Watson came. I gave him a treat and quickly wrestled him back into the ice chest.
He yowled as though someone were torturing him. “Calm down, stupid,” I said. “It’s just a rabies shot.” Still yowling, he managed to wriggle one front paw–claws fully unsheathed–through an opening in the tape. It was clearly only a matter of time before he would pry the tape loose and be back under the bed. I gave up. I carried the ice chest outside, opened the top and watched him jump out and then back up onto the grill, where he declared victory by calmly licking his paws and washing his face.
Kamala and I went to Dr. Boyd’s office without Watson. This exhausting and ignominious defeat might just have been what made my sciatic nerve flare up and cause me the anguish I’m still suffering. But when I get well, I’ll rejoin the battle.
Watson’s going to get a rabies shot if it kills me.
(March 29, 2025)