Mission impossible

Have you ever tried to get a box of recycling, a baby and 2 unruly cats in a car to the vets? It is surprisingly hard. You need at least 3 adults, if not 5, in fact a swat team from MI5 might have been defeated.

However, I didn’t have a swat team, to call on, not even the A-Team, though they would have been little use against the feline cunning I faced.

Here was my plan, put recycling in the boot to drop at the top of the drive, get Darling boy in the car then ‘simply’ put Phoebe in the loving renovated card board box, lined with a towel and having plenty of large holes (one of these turned out to be my downfall as you will discover) sellotape this up, then put Booboo in the real cat basket (a real basket specifically for cats, not a real cat, you understand, though Booboo is of course real). Anyway, put both cats in the car, drop recycling at the top of the lane and then onto the vets. A fool proof plan, surely? Even so, I still allowed myself a generous 30 minutes for this activity.

Well, it wasn’t that simple. With the recycling in the boot, the boot didn’t shut, so I left it open. I put Darling boy in the car, then went to tackle the cats. I put Phoebe in the box and she went in quite happily. I then sellotaped it up, using the only sellotape I had to hand, rubbish thin stuff, which was never going to work, but I was optimistic. Then I coaxed Booboo into her cat basket, lined with a towel with a tempting trail of cat biscuits. As I was just on the verge of success, Phoebe escaped her box and wandered in to see what was going on. I picked her up and put her back in her box and put the heavy hessian door mat over the top whilst I look in vain for some more sturdy sellotape. Giving up on this fruitless search, I went back to squeezing Booboo into her basket and into the car. Meanwhile Darling boy has had quite enough of being in the car and not actually going anywhere and so is making his displeasure known. Once I get Booboo into the back with the seatbelt around her basket Darling boy perks up immediately. He adores the cats and started saying ‘CAAA’ and seemed much happier. I then stuffed Phoebe in her box on the front seat with the doormat still on top.

By this time, we are now 20 minutes late for the appointment, but at least we are all in the car and on our way.

I began reversing out of the car porch and a distinct crunching sound signalled that perhaps having the boot open might be a problem. I leaped out the car, re-fixed a plastic thingy that had snapped off the wipers (Handsome husband if you are reading this- I promise it’s fine, really, I fixed it)

I closed the boot as best I could and as I was turning the car around, there was a frantic scrabbling from inside the box on the front seat and Phoebe can be seen making a bid for freedom for the second time. She unsurprisingly defeats the feeble cardboard box in seconds and is then running around inside the car, round and round until she spies the boot is still open and flies out the back of the car like a speeding bullet. Darling boy is delighted by this feline show. I am resigned to the fact that I have been outwitted by a cat and decide to call it quits and just take one cat to the vet.

We arrive at the vets half an hour late for our appointment and are suitably chastised. There seems to be little pitty for the challenges presented by transporting livestock in this wholly inappropriate ad woebegone manner. I think they are made of sterner stuff down at the vets. Or perhaps they just have stronger sellotape?