Stephanie and I spend Tuesday nights in the summer at church, serving on the Jr. High staff during an event called TNT. It’s a great time hanging out with Jr. Highers, playing games, listening to (and making) music, and talking about God. And it usually involves water balloons. Nothin’ wrong with that. But this most recent Tuesday, it wasn’t the most interesting thing that happened that evening.
After TNT, a group of staffers headed down to Coldstone Creamery with Stephanie and I, and we hung out and chatted with each other and other PBCCers who happened to also be there. We were probably there for about and hour, or an hour and a half, and the crowd started to thin. Eventually everyone but Camille had left, and the three of us sat there chatting.
And then Meeeewww!
Then silence. Then Meeeewwww! again. A kitten. A very distressed kitten, mewing from across the parking lot. I stood up in the middle of someone else’s sentence and started to walk towards the sound, and the three of us wandered across the parking lot toward Steven’s Creek, a very busy four-lane street that runs through Cupertino and the rest of the valley. The mewing got louder, and it became apparent that it was coming from the low, thick ivy ground cover that separated the parking lot from Steven’s Creek.
Kitty was somewhere in the ivy. The very thick ivy that no one could see through or even reach through. Unfortunately the mewing stopped as soon as we approached the ivy. We think this was because Kitty was feral, but we still wanted to save him.
At this point, we realized the best thing to do was to try to poke at Kitty. Camille found her music stand (sans the part where you put the music) in her “soccer mom” van. It would have to do. We had no other kitty-pokable objects. We thought maybe if we poked the right spot (Softly, of course! What do you think we are, cruel?) we would hear a mew of protest, and we would have a location on Kitty. So the poking went on, at random, for a few minutes while we shone our headlights and the flashlight of a passerby into the ivy. But it didn’t seem to be working.
Kitty was still somewhere in the ivy. The very feral kitty who could jump out and maul your face just as you leaned in to see if you could hear him rustling around in there. Obviously, the next step would have to be more drastic, with less face vulnerability. I think stomping was an obvious choice. Stephanie got up on a thin fence that separated the ivy bush on the parking lot side from the ivy bush on the Steven’s Creek side, and began to jump around a bit. Now, mind you, this ivy was very thick. It could actually mostly hold Steph’s weight, so Kitty wasn’t in any direct danger. I mean, he had survived the poking, so surely the stomping wasn’t much worse. We were going to get him out of there, probably in one piece, whether he liked it or not.
It turns out stomping kicks poking to the curb. Kitty came flying from the ivy, propelled by his wild will power and four tiny, fuzzy black legs. And he darted across Steven’s Creek’s west-heading lanes, and into the bushes in the median.
We all freaked out because except for hearing the mewing from a distance, we hadn’t actually had any proof at all that there was actually a cat in the ivy. I mean, what if we had heard incorrectly and the mewing was coming from somewhere else? What if someone had a remote-control kitty impersonation device? (Talk about useful!) Well, seeing our black, super-fuzzy Kitty in the flesh running across the road almost completely dispelled that idea.
So of course we chased Kitty across the road. I mean, he could get hit by a car or starve, and while Kitty apparently did want that, we didn’t. Luckily the bushes in the median were thinner than the ivy, although they were much taller, so we were able to chase our fuzzy black kitty friend back and forth on the median between shrubs and other things without much waiting around. On a few occasions he dropped the stealth approach and darted back out onto the shoulder of the road to make some quick headway into another median bush that was further away. Those times were exciting. Kitty may have only been about seven inches long, but he was faster than all three of us.
We stayed on the median for another 20 minutes or so, tossing a pink blanket back and forth in the hopes that we could throw it over his tiny fuzzy body and capture him without him going feral on our beautiful, delicate skin.
I regret to say that he successfully lost us in a group of tall, green leafy things with purple blossoms. We never saw him again. We took our blanket and our pokey music stand and went home.
Stupid fuzzy kitty. If he had just let us grab him forcefully, he might have lived a happier life.