The two of us got directions to the SPCA and took a drive to find Binx. The city passed by, becoming tinier and tinier in the rear view mirror; prairie fields popped up and the single-lane street stretched on and on and on. Where was this place?
Finally I found it. My car rolled into a gravel lot and parked by a building set back from the road. We got out, strolling to the doors in silence (maybe not in silence, but it adds dramatic effect), and pushed inside. The lobby is bright and cheerful, trying hard with its pet fresheners and plump, nonthreatening check-in staff to cover up the scents and sights of death. Tiny puppies and kittens (no doubt new arrivals) can be seen being examined in the background by women in lab coats, and to the right is a massive picture board of all the people who have come before you to save a poor Snoopy or Smokey from slaughter.
Once we checked in, the secretary told us to go through a big blue door at the end of the hall. Beyond this door would be another set of blue doors followed by three cat chambers and two dog dens. We walked towards the heavy looking blue door, passing a couple cats that were "on sale" (IE Death Row) at the back of the lobby.
After the first blue door is a small hallway with stacks of empty cages lining the right wall. A hill of discarded shoes comes grimly to mind; anyone over five years old knows what happened to those poor puddy tats. At the very end is the second stark blue door which opens up on a longer hallway, cement from ceiling to floor. The three cat rooms are along the right and the dog rooms are -- as the employee indicated -- at the end. After sanitizing our hands with the required safety goo, we went inside the first inspection room to peer through rows of cages in search of just the right cat. We'd take them out of their pens, away from their brothers and sisters, and examine them fully for any quirks or flaws. Only the best would do. Black hair, green eyes. There's something oddly medical, medieval, and Nazi about the whole process.
This place is Auschwitz for animals.
After goose-stepping through all three inspection rooms and appraising the subjugated furballs, we still hadn't found Binx. Both of us became quite fond of a gnarled Tabby named "Ol' One Eye", but a cat like that is at the end of his rope. If he could hack a few words past his grumbling purr, he would probably sputter something like, "Go on. Save one of the whippersnappers."
Just as we were about to give up looking for Binx, my friend remembered the cats that were on sale in the lobby. And finally, on our way back out the blue doors, I spotted the exact guy we'd been searching for. He was hunched in a kennel on Death Row, no doubt quietly crossing himself and putting his paws together in kitty prayer.
Love at first sight.
We took him out, rolled him back and forth and -- within five minutes -- my friend was signing adoption papers. The employees seemed a bit miffed and asked if he was certain that this was the cat he wanted. Taken aback, as if his new child was just insulted by Kanye West on stage, he replied that he was sure this was the only animal for him.
A week later, I'm glad Binx was saved from the SPCA. He's a pretty cool cat and fits in well with the rest of us boys. He loves booze (brandy, specifically) and tries to play Wii by smacking the buttons on our remotes. I'm pretty jealous of his bow-tie collar and awesome patch of silver chest hair, too. And his cat fort. And his afternoon naps.
Basically I'm jealous of everything about Binx except his neutering appointment. But as the great Bob Barker always said:
Remember to help control the pet population -- have your pets spayed or neutered!
