Posting from the Feral Cats for Domestication Front--The Kitten Liberation Front sabotaged us again!

            Recently my English Professor, Ms. Christ (yes this is her real name) asked for my help live-trapping some young kittens that were stowed away under a concrete sidewalk in front of the Lowell Heiny building at my college, Mesa State, in Colorado.  She wanted to adopt the young felines out to families and since I already own a live trap, I agreed to help her.  I thought capturing the kittens would be an easy task, but that was before I came up against the Kitten Liberation Front that evidently runs operations out of Mesa State College.  A loose knit organization, they set off live-traps and free caught kittens knowing that the captured putty-tats will be taken away to a new home where they’ll be loved and nurtured to death, after they’ve lived a long, lazy, nap and food filled life.  They’re a wily bunch, (the KLF) but I guess you have to be when your members are composed of highly trained, instinct driven, super-sophisticated, Cat Liberators.  The KLF only accepts the best; I just wish I knew they were operating at
Mesa State before I accepted my assignment.  After a week of finding no kittens in my trap, I was informed by many students that "other students" (obviously operatives for the KLF) were freeing the kittens because they were just so darn cute.  So by the time I would get to the traps they'd already be empty.

            Having learned who my enemies were, I stepped up my game and set up shop on a late Friday night.  I knew the KLF would be focusing their well oiled, militant machines at parties where young boys and girls congregated with acne on their faces and beer on their breath.  They look normal enough, but that’s the genius part of their front.  While they get drunk and act stupid, throwing up on their friend’s furniture, they’re actually biding their time until Monday, when they begin their covert operations all over again; waiting to free the last silver kitten from its hellish, family loving, tuna eating destiny.

            At long last, having learned the enemies MO, Annie (my wife) and I had incredible success.  By 11pm we had our first three cats in the bag, literally.  We delivered the cats to Captain Christ; leader, nay savior, of the Feral Cats for Domestication Front (FCFDF).  She quickly arrived in the Cat-mobile and took away our feral friends.  My wife and I waved goodbye, knowing a great deed had been done and that one less cat would sleep on the streets or have to beg for a can of manufactured salmon scrap—oh what a wonderful world we live in. 

            An hour later we checked our trap again and understood the KLF was still busy trying to pass off fake IDs at the local brewery and impress each other while belching out their ABCs.  Their weakness comes from the strangest of places and if we were lucky, young members of the KLF were currently lighting their flatus on fire or egging one another on as they killed another ten thousand brain cells with a substance that is inhaled and frequently followed with, “Awesome man," "duuuude," or “that chronic is dope,” which, besides the pun, is absolutely true, chronic is dope.

            As I was saying, we checked our trap and found two more cats.  These were the kind of Shrek-looking, Puss’n boots, eyes glazed over, pet me I’m cute, I love you, kitty-type-of-cats.  Being an expert in the feline persuasion, I reached into the live trap with my leather construction gloves and delicately pulled out man’s new best friend.  I quickly found out why man’s old best friend is a dog and not a cat.

            Fluffy, as I’ll call her, came out of the cage and went ape-shit on me.  A hideous noise, somewhat akin to the sound I imagine Satan would make if I pulled him out of Hell by the scruff of his neck, came out of the little white demon.  It bellowed, screamed, squealed, screeched, howled, squalled, roared, and ululated like an Islamic extremist declaring jihad on my hand; all in one breath.  I don’t know the language of cat, but I think Fluffy was telling me in her own kitty language that she was going to kill me and my whole family if I didn’t let her go immediately.  She followed up the threat by going berserk in my arms, shredding my shirt like a Tasmanian devil unleashed, spewing unholy epitaphs upon me, cursing me with her evil cacophony of malodorous profanities, while assaulting all my natural senses.  Hell hath no fury like a deranged pussycat unleashing its anger on the abomination of desolation that was now me.

            I suddenly realized the wisdom in the Kitten Liberation Front's method.  Cats should be free to live as they choose; Fluffy showed me the error in my ways.

            A little while later I found that I had again, underestimated my opponents in the KLF.  I received a call from Captain Christ and found that three cats we’d captured earlier had chewed their way to freedom and escaped from her screened porch.  I laughed when she told me because I understood that our Captain had been duped by one of KLF’s most sinister tactics—free the kittens and make it look like the Mama Cat did it; the oldest trick in the book; damn they’re good.

            And so our adventure came to an end—Kitten Liberation Front—3, Feral Cats for Domestication Front—1 (we managed to catch one kitty while the KLF members were sobering up the next day). 

            The moral of the story is this: never underestimate the KLF, and never, ever, underestimate man’s non-best friend.  Curiosity may have killed the cat, but what nobody tells you is that Curiosity was horifically mauled from his encounter with the "cat."  Curiosities' body was never found, but this much is known, he suffered greatly and was dead before "cat" hit the floor.  Curiousity made the mistake of pulling "cat" out of the live trap by the scruff of his neck.  The mistake would never be repeated.  That is why I'm blogging; friends don't let friends piss off fluffy white cats.