My mother-in-law is moving in with my brother-in-law and his wife, so someone must take Henry the Cat. We draw the short straw. Henry is now ours.
Don’t get me wrong. I love cats. I have two. So what’s the big deal about three?
Well, this is Henry.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Sophie, he’s not so bad! What is your problem, Sophie? This cat is beautiful. Sophie, are you some sort of inhumane monster? Are you a—(deep breath)—cat hater?
I swear, by some fluke, Henry photographs like a supermodel. Photos cannot convey the enormity of Henry and his issues.
But let me tell you, this boy is HUGE. I’m talking obese–27 pounds o’ mamouth kitty! This boy is LOUD. I’m talking snorting, snot-slinging, wheezing loud. You know how Darth Vador breathes? That’s how Henry breathes, only without the electronics. This boy smells, and not like daisies. This boy is greasy and dandruffy and covered with benign tumors. He has seven toes on each paw.
This gives him for all intents and purposes OPPOSABLE THUMBS!!!!!! (Yes, we discover later, he can open doors by turning the knob.) Also, remember that each finger has a claw. A big claw. And Henry aint afraid to use them.
And yet, we load him into the cat carrier for the three-hour ride from Connecticut to Philly. This procedure involves copious amounts of screaming (ours), blood (ours), and farting (his).
He cries the entire ride.
My kitties have no idea what’s about to hit them.