Ernie, soon to be world traveler

“Is Ernie busy this afternoon?” the caller asked, “I thought we could hang out together, if he’s free.”

I looked at Ernie Monstrocat, snoring on a chair in the studio. “What exactly did you think he’d be doing?” I inquired, “Taking a meeting at the White House?”

“Well, it’s Ernie,” she said, “You never know…”

And that’s the way it is with Ernie. In the almost three months he’s been here he’s developed a following. People stop in to say hi (to Ernie), bring presents (to Ernie) and introduce new friends (to Ernie). I think I’m referred to as “Ernie’s landlady, whatshername.”

Ernie gets mail. The other day the postman hand-delivered a letter for him, containing a picture of a cat named Geraldine, whose North Dakota owner apparently pimps her cat as a feline pinup. It was labeled just “Ernie,” at my address. The postman had corrected it to read “Ernie Morgan.”  “Is Ernie around?” she asked, so Ernie thanked her in person.

Visitors sneak in treats. Tami brought bacon. Steven brought prawns. Melanie brought a Burgerville hamburger (“But I told them to hold the condiments,” she said anxiously, “I don’t think they’re good for a cat.”). Cheese curds. Ham. French crullers. Chinese stir fry (don’t ask). The pizza guy saw Ernie, dropped to his knees for a cuddle and gave him a piece of sausage. From my pizza.

Ernie weighs 18.78 pounds and is shaped like a football. The vet has him on diet food and strictly no treats. When the neighbor kids starting showing up with canned tuna clutched in grubby little fists, I started checking guests at the door.

Ernie thinks I’m being petty.

The social whirl, however, is winding down in Portland. Ernie has accepted a position as studio cat in Brenda Griffith’s shiny new Bullseye Resource Center in Atlanta and will be flying out as soon as someone sends me the final travel arrangements.

Today we did the vet travel certificate thing and got Ernie microchipped and current on his vaccinations. The microchip is in case the unthinkable happens between here and Atlanta.

I lugged the cat carrier into the vet’s office, got the usual, “Hey, Ernie’s here!” and visitors popped up in twos and threes to say goodbye. They played and talked and petted until the vet gave him a clean bill of health….which took far longer than expected.

Ernie hasn’t stopped purring since he arrived, and he grumbles a lot. Dr. Rick (who kinda looks like Grizzly Adams) couldn’t get him to shut up long enough to hear his heart. Finally, he soaked a rag in alcohol and let Ernie smell it. “This always stops the purr,” he said. Ernie glared. Didn’t stop purring.

Dr. Rick glared back. “Come ON, Ernie!” He grabbed Ernie’s head, held the rag against his nose for a second and… the purring stopped. Dr. Rick heard what he wanted to hear and let go. Ernie stalked to the other end of the exam table, raised a massive paw and knocked the alcohol bottle off the table. Then he stomped back to Dr. Rick and yowled. Dr. Rick gave him a treat (Dr. Rick!) and apologized profusely.

“This,” said Dr. Rick, eyes narrowing, “is a GREAT cat. That better be a good home you’ve found him. Couldn’t you find him something a little closer than Atlanta, for god’s sake?” His assistants nodded emphatically, glaring at me, and I felt like Simon Legree, selling Little Ernie down the river.

“It’s a WONDERFUL home,” I said defensively, “Ernie gets to meet hundreds, maybe thousands, of cat lovers who want to cuddle him. He’ll have his own little girl. They’re putting a cat door into a backyard play area so he gets fresh air. Brenda and her husband are great animal lovers….”

They looked unconvinced, so I started babbling. I’m not sure, Brenda, but I think Ernie now has his own apartment, a personal trainer, personal physician, sports car and trust fund. And you and your husband just won the Nobel Prize for pet care. Several of Dr. Rick’s assistants want to come live with you.

Dr. Rick is mailing Ernie’s medical records to you, Brenda. He says that, other than the football shape, Ernie’s in fine condition and ready to travel. He says that if Ernie’s going to be outside you’ll want to check him for feline heartworm, whatever that is, and probably get his teeth cleaned in the next year or so.

Oh, and see if you can bring Ernie with you for a visit next time you hit up glassland. His fan club (including me) is really going to miss him. Sigh.

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