Surgeon General’s warning: the following post may contain dangerous levels of both mayonnaise and punnery.
We had a jarring experience at Tabby’s Place this week.
Cats communicate in all kinds of ways to get what they need. This is one of the things we admire about them; no matter how frail, fearful or in any way challenged, a cat can generally find a way to…find a way.
But it’s hard to find your way when your head is encased in number 1 recycled plastic. (That’s plastic code PET, adding insult to injarstice.) Behold one tragically jarred cat.
Our best forensics suggest that this was all the result of one poorly planned snack. You can’t blame the jarred cat, really, not given what he smelled: that grand unifying ingredient, that oily organizing principle, the delicious common denominator that makes tuna salad, egg salad, coleslaw and any number of sandwiches great.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single cat in possession of a robust hunger must be in want of a condiment — the fattier and eggier the better. Our hungry friend did a few back-of-the-envelope calculations — “My head is petite; that jar is ginormous” — and then squeezed in for the snack.
And then it all went terribly wrong.
His head went in. His head stayed in. His meows were muffled.
And all for minimal mayo, little more than a lackluster lick.
Still, cats are capital at making a way where there ain’t no way. And so, the tuxedo with the unfortunate snack selection found a way to find us.
Someone saw something, and selfsame someone told someone who told someone who told Tabby’s Place that there was a cat with a jar. Next thing we knew, we — by which I mean Danielle the Valiant — were on our way to Jarred Cat’s Location, trap and courage in hand. One successful capture later, and Jarred Cat was on his way to the emergency vet.
Happily, our sorry snacker’s embarrassing headgear left no permanent damage. But, it seems Jarred Cat is a proud sort. Once freed from his sandwich-slop shackles, he attempted to destroy all evidence of his escapades, by which I mean All Of Humanity.
The emergency vet’s staff attempted to be kind. “Um. We were wondering. Did you realize this cat is a little…um. Well, feral?”
Make that more than a dollop feral.
“Oh, and by the way,” asked the brave and likely wounded staffer. “What’s the cat’s name, for his record?”
Thus launched our own unfortunate adventures in naming. I will not embarrass my fellow Tabby’s Place staff by naming names, other than to say that someone whose name rhymes with Zess suggested “Jar Jar”, and someone whose name may or may not rhyme with Zinny nominated “Jarhead.” Since our freed feral mayo maven was neither a Binks nor a Marine, we opted for Hellman’s.
It works on so many levels.
Per the emergency vet hospital’s survivors, Hellman’s is a bit of a hell-man.
Per the cat himself, anyone should be proud to share his name with a mayonnaise.
Per all of us, it’s a happy tale that this hapless hungry boy was freed: bring out the Hellman’s, and bring out the best.
Run free and snack smartly, my feral friend. We’ll see you on the other side of the sandwich.