Not of myself. But of Hope, who is in her crate in the back seat.
This is my car in the bowels of the Block Island ferry, getting ready for our journey back to the mainland. They do not allow people (unless you are Christopher Walken) to sit in their cars during the hour-long boat ride. You have to go up into the ferry proper. So I had to leave her there. She crouched in her cage, like a little Cornish hen, with big alarmed miserable eyes, and endured her fate with no complaint.
The ferry ride out to Block Island was rough, the boat climbing the waves and plunging down into the holes in between. It was gloriously fun but it had to be a shrieking horror for Hope, who had no idea what her life had come to. The ferry ride back to the mainland was a breeze, no big waves, nothing, but still: it’s LOUD down there with the cars, much louder than up above.
So I look at this benign picture and I feel despair.
On some level, they learn to trust that you know what you are doing–even a cat. Of course, that doesn’t mean they like it.
DBW – hahaha Right – it’s a trust-building thing. I’ve taken her places, so she knows her torture won’t go on forever. She really does bounce back – but the ferry ride, the rough up and down, had to be crazy for her. Like – how does she interpret it?? so funny.
As a former cat owner (we literally had between two and… several at a time when I grew up), I’m willing to bet even odds that the turn of events went something like this :
Sheila: (Thoughts filled with despair and remorse for subjecting Hope to this nautical travel horror.)
Hope the Cat: “Christ, this again?” Licks paw. Wipes face. Sleeps all the way to the mainland.