Tom the Hazmat Cat
It’s the little unexpected crises that will drive us to a 55-plus community
By Betty Booker
Tom the Luuv Kitty, who lives with us when his owner-in-name-only is traveling, is in the doghouse.
I do not love Tom the Luuv Kitty.
I do not even like him. He purrs, acts cute, then nips the hand that pats him.
He picks fights with Earline, who showed up first. (Within an hour of arrival, she dropped six kittens, which is why she was temporarily remanded to our custody seven years ago. Her babies went to good homes; she isn’t maternal. Maybe Tom is the alley cat who knocked her up. The vet has prevented further procreation by either of them.)
Tom and Earline thrive on their mutual disaffection. But that’s another story.
The reason Tom is on the outs with me is because he got into mischief in the basement. His adventure reminded me of why I believe people should entertain the idea of eventually moving to a retirement community way earlier than we think.
Let me explain.
When we came home from church, the front hall stank of gas.
Within minutes, firetrucks took up the entire block. Everyone was ready in case the house blew up. An ambulance waited. The utilities man arrived. A cop kept cars at bay and neighbors outside the police tape. Everyone was polite and professional.
“Natural gas?” muses the first fireman.
Gas leak? I think. Big danger.
“Methane, maybe?” says the second.
Sewer break? Big money.
“Neither one,” says the utilities guy, who cuts off the gas main. “Smells chemical. Get Hazmat.”
Love Canal? I think. Lord help us.
The firemen open the basement door.
Tom streaks out between their legs like he’s fleeing a Big Scary Monster. Krazy Kat.
Maybe two dozen fire personnel and hazmat specialists looking like space aliens in their bulky gear mill around while their leader outlines a plan of attack.
Finally, they enter the basement.
Tom apparently has amused himself by knocking over a plastic bottle of flea spray, some of which soaked into a little rolled up area rug, which had to be secured in heavy plastic and properly disposed of. Flea spray contains malathion, a common household pesticide we are now inclined to avoid.
This spray contained a smelly additive so humans would notice the basically odorless active ingredient. Mission definitely accomplished. It doesn’t reek like rotten eggs (natural gas) or cow pies (methane). It smells much worse.
“The smell is harder to get rid of than skunk,” says the professional cleaner who successfully attacks the problem area, which is remarkably small considering all the fuss it produced.
Eventually super-cleaning and electric fans dissipate the odor, or I would not be writing about this topic.
Tom The Incorrigible still sneaks into the basement. There’s nary a chemical molecule for him to fiddle with. What’s left is stored in ecological, ventilated bins outdoors.
“The best way to get rid of this stuff is to use it up and properly dispose of the container,” says the captain in a follow-up visit.
“We’re not going to have issues, because we’re never buying another chemical,” says I.
Which brings me to my contention that there comes a point in life when you just get tired of dealing with crises you neglected to prevent.
This is the point when you consider getting rid of anything that might cause problems and begin thinking — for your parents or for yourself — about moving someday, sooner or later, to a 55-and-older community where others handle crises.
I could start by giving Tom back to his official owner. Only when he put Tom in a cat carrier to take him to Kentucky, Tom escaped and hid in the basement.
I guess he likes living here.
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Betty Booker, a retired Richmond Times-Dispatch reporter and columnist, likes pets, none of whom is up for adoption, even Tom.
