Return of the Kitten

The cats are finally safely back in Maine. Only the expected amount of hi-jinks ensued. For those of you reading regularly about the saga of the kitties, you’ll know about the incredible amount of work and effort involved to prepare a kitty for flight whom thinks the cat carrier is a gas chamber. The anti-anxiety drugs and daily lock ups are all part of what should be the final “Return of the Kitten.”

The Journey:

Delta Airlines had other plans to further traumatize the kitty. As a member of the greater blogging community, I recognize using blogs to complain about companies by name is rather silly and immature. Delta Airlines sucks monkey ass. I am above such measures as petty name calling. Those stupid heads at Delta have the worst customer service of any airline. Any adult knows the correct way to solve a grievance is by writing a strongly worded letter to the company. I am so frustrated and annoyed that I’m going to vent about it on my blog, poo poo face tards.

In the letter, I can inform Delta Airlines about how their website clearly states a pet carry on bag is 17′ by 12′ by 12′. The jerks had the wrong size on their website. To make sure the transaction went smoothly, I asked the person at check-in if I had the right size of carry on. Really? How hard is it to know the dimensions of carry on! He assured me that even if the cat carrier is the wrong size, he could run up the Delta Airline pet bag to the gate. A $75 value!

In order to bring a pet through security, the traveler must quite literally take the cat out of the bag and walk through the metal detector. This act results in piss from a kitty on the traveler. Once I was about to board, the gate attendant told me I needed to go back downstairs and get the Delta approved pet bag. No, they can’t just send the bag up to the gate for me and now I must run through the airport with a cat… yep more piss.

I bought the bag and rushed through security again. There goes my backup clothes. Luckily enough, the plane hasn’t left and I board the plane, with a bag shifting and clawing like the Tasmanian Devil. The upside is the mew of the kitty is drown out by the plane. Though the kitty wouldn’t be as traumatized should Delta’s website and employees simply had the correct information… poopieheads.

Maine:

The upside to being peed on several times by a cat is I got to see Maine, the home state of Steven King. I totally understand why Steven King has a theme of dilapidation in his novels. The state probably has the highest creepy place quotient in the country. In the town where I was staying, the “main street” had a church (old and creepy), a town hall (also old and creepy), and gas station/general store/restaurant combo (old and really creepy).

Aside from the hundred-year-old gas pump and the porch that should rightfully feature an Old Man saying, “You boys best stay out of those woods at night. Storm’s a brewing,” the gas station featured a prominent “Deer Kill Tally.” Intrigued by the display, I had to see the tally for myself. A local, dressed completely in hunter orange, said, “You don’t like Deer Kill Tally?”

To which I replied, “No, it’s just where I come from, we would have a Jack Rabbit Kill Tally.”

He must of figured I was alright after that because he proceeded to ask me about the game of New Mexico.  I seemed to have a decent conversation with the orange clad New Englander, which seemed out of place to me. In other points of my life, I’ve always received a sense of discomfort from small town America. The feeling is like life was perfect for the locals until the day I arrived.

Maine is different, even the gun toting, orange clad, thickest accent, “Ya ganna have lobsta at Baa Haaba? Ayuh!” type of people were really friendly. Despite the fact that most buildings in Maine looked like they were halfway houses for ancient evil, serial killers, and various undead, the people were very polite. I never really got the small town “we don’t trust outsiders here” feel in Maine. The people were great and the buildings, scary. Even the majestic colonial hotels by the beach seemed like the would eat the pleasant and trusting staff at any moment.

I was taken to see Steven King’s house (No, it’s not a castle on the hill, just a normal house on a normal block (kind of big, but not as big I thought it would be). Which is an interesting experience, for a writer to gawk at another writer’s house. I don’t imagine that people would drive by my house, but who knows? Maybe I’ll have some degree of success and receive my own stream of house lookers one day.

I drew the line at the photograph. Maybe if he was dead, sure I’d have a picture. Treat others like I would like to be treated. I have a tendency to look at people’s houses even if they aren’t famous. Buildings fascinate me. The thought of various people throwing peace signs on my sidewalk in their family album seems a bit discomforting. Luckily enough, Steven King’s house would probably eat the people before the gawkers became too much of a problem.

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