Think again: at the age of approximately five and a half months, this seemingly harmless ball of fluff committed a murder in what he thought was the cover of the night.

Now, as you’ve probably figured out by now, I have three cats: Ayla (6), Lian (2) and Midas (1). At the time of the crime, Midas was just a baby and had exhibited no violent tendencies. In fact, arguably the most affectionate of the three, I could never have be prepared for what was to greet me that fateful night, when I awoke to a traumatizing scene.

Let me set the stage a bit:

It’s midnight on the eve of January 16, 2012. I am all tucked into bed, the soothing sound of the cats sprinting across the house, dragging their little string toys behind them. All is normal. At this point, I’ve learned to block out what others may consider a distraction.

1:00 a.m. – (sleeping)
2:00 a.m. – (sleeping)
3:00 a.m. – (sleeping)
3:45 a.m. – (frantic sprinting-across-carpet noise)

I immediately snap to an upright sitting position.

I come to almost quickly enough to take in the scene. Something’s not right. Lian, the little white autistic, athletic cat is at full speed, barely picking his body up off of the ground in an animalistic pursuit of a little gray mouse.

Now, I admit, I’m not much of an outdoorsy girl, so the fact that a stray and, at the moment, live mouse was scampering in fright around my bedroom was less than optimal.

Suddenly—and this is happening in milliseconds, people—sweet little Midas whips up from his perfectly prostrate position on his neatly arranged black fleece, launches off of the bed and, in one swoop, brings the mouse down.

Poor Lian, the fragile one, all the while looks on in confusion, turning around in circles as the mouse he worked so hard to round up is snatched from under his nose.

And, now for the kill: I don’t think this particular game was much of a challenge for Midas. Occurring almost simultaneously with the leap, the mouse’s neck took a hit—instantly incapacitated. Midas, who had before my eyes turned into a venomous, threatening, torturous murderer, stood, menacingly clutching his kill.

I watched in horror. Never before had I witnessed domestic animals give way to their wild, natural tendencies, let alone my five-pound kitten running around my basement apartment.

Terrified, I trailed the killer as he scurried from room to room, growling as he paraded his prey. As far as he was concerned, the hell if he was ever going to relinquish his badge of honor.

Mind you, it’s 3 a.m., I’m tired, horrified and confronted with an unfamiliar and, frankly, disturbing situation. Like any other self-respecting woman, I frantically dialed my boyfriend, selfishly unconcerned that I might wake him.

“ALEX! MIDAS… HE—I CAN’T EVEN SAY IT. HE— THERE’S A MOUSE… IT’S DEAD…I THINK. MIDAS…he’s a, a killer! A torturous beast. I NEED— HELP ME! WHAT DO I DO?”

Groggily, Alex barely suppressed his obvious amusement.

At this point, I was on the phone, positioned in a heap on top of the kitchen counter. Previous attempts to part Midas from his prey were an abject failure. I was determined to keep the distance for the time being; there was no frickin’ way he was going to drop that thing on me. Or, if the mouse should rise from the dead, there was no way that thing was crawling up my leg.

Before Alex could offer me his guidance, I leapt from the counter and sprinted toward my winter boots, an impervious armor against whatever clever little moves the cat (or the mouse, for that matter) might make. Grabbing a broom, I chased Midas from room to room, nudging him in hopes that it would be annoying enough for him to put that whole mouse-killing business behind him.

To no avail, I returned to Alex. In between trying to calm me down and putting me into a mental state where I could feasibly handle the situation, he suggested opening a can of wet food, which—up until then—was Midas’ favorite thing in the whole wide world.

Here comes the can snap. And…

Nothing…NOTHING.

The murderous monster did nothing but stare up at me with his big, gorgeous yellow eyes.

Plan C: “Try treats!”

Nothing.

Plan D? At this point, we’re losing hope, I’m still frantic and traumatized, and really craving a return to normalcy—a return to my bed. Alex half-heartedly suggests using the hair dryer…

This does, in Alex’s defense, grab his attention for a second, but is still lousy competition compared to the mouse.

Plan D.5: “I have it,” Alex exclaims! “Cat Froli!”

For those of you deprived individuals who are not familiar with FroliCat, it is a wonderful little console that has about 10 programmed laser pointer trajectories. It’s great. You turn it on, adjust the speed and set the timer and it’s cat entertainment without requiring you to flick a string around for 15 minutes.

FroliCat proved to be too much for the kitten to handle. I forgot to mention, at this point, we had resorted to double stimulation: both the hair dryer and FroliCat were in action.

HE DROPPED THE MOUSE! I immediately covered it with the broom and grabbed Midas with a self-satisfied, “Now you go tell your friends who’s boss!” (his friends being my other two cats, who were innocently, and behaving like perfect little angels, quarantined in the other room).

Now comes the hard part. Mustering as much courage as I could, with the power of my whole being, I swept the dead mouse into a plastic bag, all the while physically shuttering and shrieking to Alex, who was still on the phone.

4:50 a.m. – The cats are released.
5:00 a.m. – Bedtime #2

A long night has come to an end.

Also, something groundbreaking did happen: I AM SITTING IN THE FRONT OF THE ROOM.

Recover. I will give you time.

Practically mauling Alex down on the way back to the car, I begged him for some change to go get a water from the vending machine, convinced that it would keep my sickness at bay. At this point, the consumption of what I thought was a harmless, delicious McDonald’s Happy Meal seemed lightyears in the past, and I now only remembered it with a tinge of happiness for what it once was, but now had become.

As I hopped back into the car, feeling as though my body was now equipped with sickness-fending super powers, I had yet to realize that the worst was yet to come. You see, if you’re Alex’s parents, you choose the most remote, nuclear power plant-warmed lake to build a house on. This means that, after exiting the comfort of the paved, more or less straight-shooting roads, you then must stare straight into 50 mph winding death traps. Before leaving the safety of the streetlights, we decided to forego dinner in exchange for some nourishing gas station snacks. Still feeling slightly health empowered, I settled on my standard nighttime craving, an ice cold serving of milk. Quickly downing the bottle, I made amends with the vehicle that had so far been responsible for fueling my sickness and buckled up for the remainder of the ride.

Let me just tell you: I learned that milk is probably the worst enemy of an agitated stomach. Of course, I didn’t actually realize this fact until the twisty roads were upon us and I could do nothing but pray to God that I would not soil the nice Lexus with the inside of my stomach. Focus, Taylor. FOCUS. FOOCCCCCUUUUUUUSSSSSSSSSS. With every bend and passing headlight, I pressed onward, attempting with every last piece of might I could muster to not be that girl - the one who can’t handle road trips, or the one that has such anxiety in new settings with new people that she absolutely loses it.

Finally, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Ten more minutes. Detecting my obvious discomfort after having watched me struggle from minute 29 on, Alex had been continually asking me in a hushed tone if I was okay. I lied to myself, said I would be able to do it. We were so close! “I’m fine,” I told everyone. The car wandered ahead; I continued to, in an agonized fashion, suppress my less than well balanced food choices of the previous eight hours.

T-minus three minutes ’til destination:

“Alex, I think I need to—STOP THE CAR! STOP THE CAR! I NEED TO GET OUT…NOW!!!!”

“But we’re almost there…” says Alex’s dad.

“PLEASE, NOWWWwwwwww.”

I bolted out. Dignity ferociously betraying me, the second I made it to the bushes, I lost it…and then some more. For a good minute and a half, I would say, it was nonstop. In plain view of the car, I’m sure the family twiddled their thumbs nervously, no one wanting to comment on the obvious. After two minutes or so, I think they started to worry and sent Alex after me. Calmness, coolness and collection had left the building at that point, as he helped me back to the car.

“I’m really sorry…really sorry. I feel a lot better,” I tried to dissolve the tension gently.

Sure enough, three minutes later and we’re pulling into the driveway. Knowing that I had many points to regain before being considered a worthy companion for their son, I jumped out of the car and loaded as many bags as I could over my shoulders to help cart inside. While admiring the beautifully woodworked house, I set the bags down. Not a minute later, I heard the slow scooting of a fabric bag across the ledge and—CRASH! Alex’s mom’s Monday-Sunday pill holder went crashing to the ground. The pills scattered everywhere. Frantically trying to continue my attempt at helpfulness, I immediately knelt to the ground, trying to scoop all the pills up, possibly because I was hoping that the quicker I picked them up, the less likely people would notice, or at least the less disastrous of an offense I would had committed.

Obviously annoyed, Alex’s mom slapped on a forced smile and try to mask her irritation as I flailed around, my unwashed vomit hands furiously trying to replace her pills.

After that, instead of feasting on cheese and crackers and carousing around the kitchen with the family, I decided to bow out and head for bed with my head barely clearing my knees. I could only bet they would have a hot topic of conversation that night, and hoped Alex would survive the ridicule.

Luckily, the rest of the weekend went well, in between my frequent sleeping spells and lingering nausea. The picture to the left was taken on the last day of our trip, and I don’t think either of us was faking our happiness, so I think that’s a good sign for future visits.

With this bit of background, I’m hoping you can entertain the anxiety I’m feeling about reuniting with the family again this weekend, and wish me luck in the process! I think it’s safe to say I will be laying off the Mickey D’s this time.

]]> http://youhad2bethere.com/2010/12/22/welcome-to-virginia-girlfriend/feed/ 2 Welcome to Virginia, girlfriend. taylorhulyk taylor-alex-lake-anna http://youhad2bethere.com/2010/08/03/voting-a-humbling-experience/ http://youhad2bethere.com/2010/08/03/voting-a-humbling-experience/#comments Tue, 03 Aug 2010 22:13:26 +0000 taylorhulyk http://youhad2bethere.com/?p=29 ]]> After what shall now be dubbed somewhat of a voting “experience,” I feel both obligated and inclined to share with you the unexpected tale of August 3, 2010.

I should start out by mentioning that I might have mindlessly displaced the fact that before gubernatorial elections, there is something called a primary. I was so graciously convicted of my ignorance yesterday by my boss, Mark, who reminded the company at large to fulfill our civic duty and maybe help Michigan make something of itself.

Inspired and feeling somewhat guilty, I made the executive decision: Taylor, you will vote in this primary for the first time. You shall not silently condemn others for something that you yourself are not actuating.

So, the decision was made. Mark even gave us a little extra time off today to go and vote, time that, had I not been slammed by client work, I would have gladly taken. The alternative, be that as it may, was to frantically challenge the rush hour traffic home, taking a what should have been 15-minute hike in 40, grab a Frap at Starbucks for brain fuel and studiously look up candidates at T-minus 2.33 hours until the polls closed.

Relying on my trusty Stickies Mac widget for “professional note taking,” I tried to, as carefully as possible, scour each candidate’s website, figuring that, yeah, they’ve all got to be lying in part, but they’re ideologies and campaign goals have to count for something, right?

Racing home after a half hour of research, I shoved a microwave burrito down, hoping and praying that my stomach wouldn’t regret that decision, and continued to ravenously research (sexy, huh?). It was now 7:15, and I was down to three candidates. THIS IS SUCH A HUGE RESPONSIBILITY, my conscience roared. I kept telling myself, look at the candidate, not the party and make an informed decision. I finally made one, and it felt good. I felt empowered, and – by golly – I WAS GOING TO VOTE!

This brings me to the real story. It was now 7:25. I needed to get to the polling place by 8, place my vote and book it to Royal Oak by 8 to take part in my first ever Tweet Tea, a social media round table discussion sort of thing that takes place every Tuesday night at Goldfish Tea. Scribbling down addresses to both places, I quickly bid my cat adieu, her eyes glaring with what was detectably an accusation of neglect, and trampled down the stairs, out the door and to my un-airconditioned car.

Already sweating from the commotion, I swiftly pulled out my GPS, silently forbid it to mess with me while I was on a time table and confidently punched in the polling place address. After about a minute of the spinning hour glass, I defeatedly called the boyfriend for directions and was then on my way. Momentarily delayed by what was only the second train I’d ever seen at this particular intersection, I arrived at the elementary school doubling today as “Michigan Pride” central. Avoiding the eye contact of the candidate pushers occupying their posts outside the election doors, I hurriedly rushed into the gym cafeteria, excitedly awaiting my opportunity to contribute to society.

Me: Um, excuse me? Hi…I have no idea which precinct I’m in…

Pro-Michigan Volunteer (PMV):“That’s okay, honey. Do you have your driver’s license?

Me: Certainly.

PMV: Hmmm…I don’t seem to see you in the system… Do you have your voters registration card?

Me: No. (What the heck did I do with it?!)

PMV:Do you have a passport? Wait, maybe you’re in this stack of cards.

(Pause while looking)

PMV: Nope, not in here.

(Line stacking up behind me at this point)

Me: I have a passport. I’ll have to run home and grab it though.

PMV: Do you have citizenship?

(Pause)

Me: Well, I moved here in November…

PMV: To the country?

Me: No! I have a passport though; I’d be happy to run home real quick and grab it.

PMV: Do you have your birth certificate?

Me: No, a passport though. I’ll be back! I live close.

I then darted away, trying to avoid eye contact with the line of people that had built up during the four minutes of awkward miscommunication, all of which who were definitely in control of their veteran-voting-know-how status.

I drove home, raced up the stairs, said hi my kitty and thrashed open my junk drawer, desperately trying to free my passport. Trying to temper the humiliating thought that these people are going to see my Spain stamp and wonder how I navigated a foreign country when I can’t even remember a voting card, I shrugged and again hustled to my still un-airconditioned car. Sweat droplets more prominently dotting my face now, I tried to abide the speed limit as I cruised back to the polling place. The time? 7:50. Crap, I thought. Tweet Tea is really looking like an impossibility. My co-worker, Nikki’s, gonna kill me. Ashamedly texting her, I briefed her on my voting trials and promised her recompense for my failure to make my promised appearance.

Alright, back to the attendant booth I went, this time not managing to dodge the campaigners for some local candidate on the way in. Mumbling something like, “Thanks for the suggestion,” I hurried past. So irritating, I thought to myself.

PMV: Oh, she’s back!

(Table applause)

PMV: We were worried about you!

Me: Really? I live pretty close. Told you I’d be back.

PMV: Don’t worry, honey; we’ll get you in. Everybody in line at 8 will get to vote.

Me: Oh, good.

(Handed over passport and after verification, was presented with a ballot)

PMV: Now remember: you can only vote straight-ticket on this. That means you can’t pick a candidate on the other side, even if you like him better.

Me: You mean, I only have to fill in one bubble?

(Puzzled looks. I walked to the booth embarrassedly. I arrived. My eyes zig zag this way and that for a pen. Nothing. I walk back to the attendant table and try to snatch a pencil.)

PMV Table: ”NO, NO, no! There’s a pen at your booth!”

(Choking on my pride, I walked back and proceed to grab at the wrong side of the booth for the pen.)

PMV: No, other side!

I glanced at the ballot. Sure enough, formatted for straight ticket voting. I selected my choice for governor. But, alas! There were a whole bunch of other bubbles to fill out. State of panic: I had no idea who any of the people were. Quick! Think! Who were those annoying campaigners outside representing? Come on, brain. Pine! Fail.

I reread the directions twice to make sure I at least handed in my 1/8th completed ballot correctly. After running it through the machine and satisfyingly watching it tally my vote, I retrieved my “I Voted” sticker and was on my way, but not without saying a jolly goodbye and thank you to all my new friends, who also now think I have the intellectual capacity of a 3rd grader. Oh, America, they thought, what is to come of you?

Time at voting completion: 8:05. Fail. I guess I won’t be going to Tweet Tea after all.

On the way home, a goose and its extended family decided it would be a good idea to completely block the entire road, unresponsive to my persistent honks. Once again, a line was building behind me. This time, of cars. After waiting for the stubborn animals to take their sweet time crossing the street, I managed to make it back to where I started – only this time with the empowerment that only taking part in our democratic society can lend.

Thank you, America. Thank you.

Photo Credit: Flickr’s Vaguely Artistic

]]> http://youhad2bethere.com/2010/08/03/voting-a-humbling-experience/feed/ 0 i-voted-flickr-vaguely-artistic taylorhulyk i-voted-flickr-vaguely-artistic