Duchess Dumbass, at your service
This is Gwendolyn:
Sunday night, Gwendolyn disappeared. Josh and I fully experienced the five stages of grief, although they came in a compressed six hours.
STAGE #1: DENIAL
Around 11 p.m., Josh was ready to go to bed but wanted to give Gwendolyn her shot. She usually hides when she knows it’s coming, and as we find each of her hiding spots, she moves to another that’s even harder to locate. Not surprisingly, he was unable to find her.
We can never go to bed until we know where she is, so we started to backtrack: Had we seen her since dinner was delivered at around 9? Consensus was that we hadn’t. We started to tear apart the apartment, hoping she hadn’t gotten out. There was a lot of this happening:
“She couldn’t have gotten out, right?”
“No way. You would have noticed.”
“I would have, right?”
“Yes. And the delivery guy would have had to intentionally let her out, which would have taken a while because she’s so tentative going through doors outside the apartment.”
“Exactly. [pause] Right?”
“I think so.”
We spent an hour and a half dismantling all of our belongings: The contents of our front-hall closet littered half our floor space
bags of old papers were dumped on the carpet; chairs were tipped over and couch cushions were flung. I checked a miniscule space in the folded-up treadmill
Josh opened all the kitchen cabinets, including the ones above the sink. I looked inside a mostly-empty, large box of Kleenex. No Gwendolyn.
I spent another 10 minutes shaking her plastic canister of Pounce treats around the apartment, singing, “Gwennyyyyyyyyy, treeeeeeeats!” No Gwendolyn.
STAGE #2: ANGER
We started to look outside. Josh went in one direction, I went in the other, but we didn’t go too far because we know that if she got out, she wouldn’t go far, either.
I checked under every car on the block. Josh checked in our neighbors’ bushes (dirty!). We reconvened back on our stoop and decided to blame the delivery guy.
“What kind of person lets someone’s cat out without asking them first if it’s okay?”
“Are you sure you didn’t see her walk out?”
“Look, I don’t know what I saw, okay?!? She’s gone!”
I went back inside to check the apartment again. It felt completely empty, no vibe of an animal at all. I shouted, “Enough, Gwendolyn! Come out already!” Nothing.
STAGE #3: BARGAINING
I went back outside onto the stoop, trying to figure out with Josh what to do next. All of a sudden, I looked across the street toward the large church on our block and saw a set of four white feet dart from the sidewalk through a gate that leads into the courtyard of the church, which connects to a public school. We headed over there and stood in front of the gate: It’s a chain-link fence that is topped by rows of electrified barbed wire, securing the courtyard parking lot behind it. You can only get through the gate with a garage-door-opener-thingy, but there was a very small crawl space between the gate and the brick wall next to it that only a small animal could fit through. Gwendolyn weighs barely more than 5 pounds.
Here is the gate, shot Monday morning:
We stood in front of the gate and saw a little head with our cat’s ears peeking around a corner toward us. We called to her and she ran away. So we sat down, waiting patiently, and the cat came back around and sat in front of us. She was covered in shadow, but she did have white feet and a white chest and a teeny little head. We gestured and called to her again, but she instantly took off. We figured that, because she’s not an outdoor cat, she was completely freaked out and that’s why she wouldn’t come to us. This was going to take work.
Josh and I split up duties: He ran back into the apartment to get my phone and I started calling the police and fire departments, any emergency services I could think of. Josh ran over to the front of the church to see if there was any other way inside. No dice. I stood at the gate, shaking her canister of Pounce, singing, “Gwennyyyyyyyy … treeeeeeeats …” Then he came back and I went to check out the front.
I basically scaled over some bushes and climbed into the church’s landscaping to find a fence that overlooked a ledge leading to the parking lot. I didn’t see Gwendolyn but it didn’t look like a difficult drop over the fence. Then I saw a sign that said the rectory had emergency services 24 hours, so I started buzzing the doorbell for minutes at a time. Nobody answered. I went back to Josh and the gate.
STAGE #4: DEPRESSION
Josh went back to the front of the church to see if he could scale the fence that I found. I kept calling the emergency number for the rectory, but there was no answer. Josh came back and was looking frazzled but determined: He said that there were two lines of barbed wire over the fence in the front, but if he put on long sleeves, he could probably scale it with little damage.
[cue melodramatic music]
ME: Listen to me! You are not climbing over barbed wire!
HIM: Yes I am! She’s in there and I have to get her out!
ME: And what happens if you slice yourself on your way over? What good are you to us then? We’ll have to rush you to the hospital and that means we leave her here … at night … all. by. herself. Do you understand?
HIM: My cat’s in there! I’ll do anything to get her out! I've climbed barbed wire before, you know!
ME: You can’t climb that fence!
HIM: I’m going in!
ME: No! Don’t leave me here all alone!
Josh fell to the ground, despondent. “My kitty …”
“I know,” I said. “I know.”
“What if … ?”
“Shh. We know she’s in there. She’s not lost.”
“How sure are you that she’s in there?”
“I’m almost positive.”
“How much?”
“Um, 80 percent.”
“That’s good, right?”
“I could be wrong.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Me too.”
[silence]
We decided to try the emergency services again. 911 told us to call 311. 311 told us we had to wait until 8 a.m. for animal rescue. I told off the 311 woman, telling her that my sick cat who doesn’t have working kidneys was in a strange parking lot and she might not last the night because she needs her medicine, but 311 Lady was a coldhearted wench. We called our local police precinct, who told us that if we scaled the fence, it’s trespassing but we wouldn’t get arrested if we were saving our cat. They told us to call the fire department because they have ladders and stuff to try to get over the fence in the front, as nobody had the ability to get through the electrified fence we were standing in front of. We called the fire department, New York’s Bravest, who save kittens from trees and all that shit, and they totally wouldn’t help us save our cat. Wouldn’t even come and check it out. I called the school, which shares the parking lot, but there was no security person to answer the ringing phone. We had no help, no way to get inside, and we hadn’t seen a glimpse of the cat in an hour. It was getting windy, and the temperature was dropping. It was 3 a.m.
In the meantime, Josh had taken to chasing after every cat he found walking down the street. We couldn’t catch up to any of them. “She could be anywhere,” he said forlornly.
“Gwennyyyyyyyyyyy, treeeeeeeeeatssssssss …”
STAGE #5: ACCEPTANCE
We started to regroup. We figured that, at the earliest, people would start showing up to the school and to the church around 6 a.m. and could let us in. We mapped out which way he’d go once inside the courtyard, and that I’d guard the gate outside. We figured if we lost control and she ran out of our grasps, we’d go straight home and start printing out Lost Cat flyers, the saddest flyers in the world. I started thinking of which photos to use because I’d taken some good shots of her lately. We thought this would be a good one:
And then we settled down to wait until sunrise, figuring that whatever was going to happen would happen and we’d just figure it out as we went. The thought of all the care we’ve given to this pet — the dozens of vet visits and the hundreds of shots and the multitudes of cans of prescription food — and that we’d ended up losing her in the most careless way was something that we just couldn’t entertain, it was too devastating.
Josh went back to the apartment to recharge his cell phone. A couple minutes later, I heard the front door shut and I heard him call my name. I walked into the middle of the street and he was waving me over.
“Bring all our stuff,” he said.
I collected the flashlights, the water bottles, the cell phone, and walked toward home.
“What?”
“She’s here.”
“Shut up. Where?”
“She’s been inside the whole time.”
It was 4:30 a.m.
STAGE #6 (invented): DENOUEMENT
When Josh went inside to look for his cell phone charger, he turned around and Gwendolyn was sitting behind him, looking at him like, “Where ya been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
WHATever.
We still have no idea where she was. The apartment was torn to shreds and we have no clue where she went. Also, we feel like giant assholes. And we can’t even claim that we found her: She found us because, apparently, we were the ones who were missing.
Here is what we learned:
1. Despite the small detail that our cat wasn’t missing, the city of New York completely failed us that night.
2. I spent three hours yelling, “Gwennyyyyyyyy, treeeeeeeatssssssss!” to absolutely nothing.
3. The cats would not come to us when we called because they weren’t ours.
4. One of those cats was completely white and looked nothing like Gwendolyn.
“I’m glad we didn’t wake the priest at 4 a.m.,” Josh said.
“I’m glad we didn’t have the fire department cut down the church’s barbed wire,” I said.
“Yeah, that would have been REALLY embarrassing.”
Seriously, could you imagine?
So, because “Saturday Night Live” has already claimed Lord and Lady Douchebag, Josh and I have decided that we’ll begin answering to Duke and Duchess Dumbass. It’s not flattering, but it’s our reality. We’re huge idiots.
I was so exhausted at work on Monday that I kept checking to make sure I put on pants.
Sunday night, Gwendolyn disappeared. Josh and I fully experienced the five stages of grief, although they came in a compressed six hours.
STAGE #1: DENIAL
Around 11 p.m., Josh was ready to go to bed but wanted to give Gwendolyn her shot. She usually hides when she knows it’s coming, and as we find each of her hiding spots, she moves to another that’s even harder to locate. Not surprisingly, he was unable to find her.
We can never go to bed until we know where she is, so we started to backtrack: Had we seen her since dinner was delivered at around 9? Consensus was that we hadn’t. We started to tear apart the apartment, hoping she hadn’t gotten out. There was a lot of this happening:
“She couldn’t have gotten out, right?”
“No way. You would have noticed.”
“I would have, right?”
“Yes. And the delivery guy would have had to intentionally let her out, which would have taken a while because she’s so tentative going through doors outside the apartment.”
“Exactly. [pause] Right?”
“I think so.”
We spent an hour and a half dismantling all of our belongings: The contents of our front-hall closet littered half our floor space
bags of old papers were dumped on the carpet; chairs were tipped over and couch cushions were flung. I checked a miniscule space in the folded-up treadmill
Josh opened all the kitchen cabinets, including the ones above the sink. I looked inside a mostly-empty, large box of Kleenex. No Gwendolyn.
I spent another 10 minutes shaking her plastic canister of Pounce treats around the apartment, singing, “Gwennyyyyyyyyy, treeeeeeeats!” No Gwendolyn.
STAGE #2: ANGER
We started to look outside. Josh went in one direction, I went in the other, but we didn’t go too far because we know that if she got out, she wouldn’t go far, either.
I checked under every car on the block. Josh checked in our neighbors’ bushes (dirty!). We reconvened back on our stoop and decided to blame the delivery guy.
“What kind of person lets someone’s cat out without asking them first if it’s okay?”
“Are you sure you didn’t see her walk out?”
“Look, I don’t know what I saw, okay?!? She’s gone!”
I went back inside to check the apartment again. It felt completely empty, no vibe of an animal at all. I shouted, “Enough, Gwendolyn! Come out already!” Nothing.
STAGE #3: BARGAINING
I went back outside onto the stoop, trying to figure out with Josh what to do next. All of a sudden, I looked across the street toward the large church on our block and saw a set of four white feet dart from the sidewalk through a gate that leads into the courtyard of the church, which connects to a public school. We headed over there and stood in front of the gate: It’s a chain-link fence that is topped by rows of electrified barbed wire, securing the courtyard parking lot behind it. You can only get through the gate with a garage-door-opener-thingy, but there was a very small crawl space between the gate and the brick wall next to it that only a small animal could fit through. Gwendolyn weighs barely more than 5 pounds.
Here is the gate, shot Monday morning:
We stood in front of the gate and saw a little head with our cat’s ears peeking around a corner toward us. We called to her and she ran away. So we sat down, waiting patiently, and the cat came back around and sat in front of us. She was covered in shadow, but she did have white feet and a white chest and a teeny little head. We gestured and called to her again, but she instantly took off. We figured that, because she’s not an outdoor cat, she was completely freaked out and that’s why she wouldn’t come to us. This was going to take work.
Josh and I split up duties: He ran back into the apartment to get my phone and I started calling the police and fire departments, any emergency services I could think of. Josh ran over to the front of the church to see if there was any other way inside. No dice. I stood at the gate, shaking her canister of Pounce, singing, “Gwennyyyyyyyy … treeeeeeeats …” Then he came back and I went to check out the front.
I basically scaled over some bushes and climbed into the church’s landscaping to find a fence that overlooked a ledge leading to the parking lot. I didn’t see Gwendolyn but it didn’t look like a difficult drop over the fence. Then I saw a sign that said the rectory had emergency services 24 hours, so I started buzzing the doorbell for minutes at a time. Nobody answered. I went back to Josh and the gate.
STAGE #4: DEPRESSION
Josh went back to the front of the church to see if he could scale the fence that I found. I kept calling the emergency number for the rectory, but there was no answer. Josh came back and was looking frazzled but determined: He said that there were two lines of barbed wire over the fence in the front, but if he put on long sleeves, he could probably scale it with little damage.
[cue melodramatic music]
ME: Listen to me! You are not climbing over barbed wire!
HIM: Yes I am! She’s in there and I have to get her out!
ME: And what happens if you slice yourself on your way over? What good are you to us then? We’ll have to rush you to the hospital and that means we leave her here … at night … all. by. herself. Do you understand?
HIM: My cat’s in there! I’ll do anything to get her out! I've climbed barbed wire before, you know!
ME: You can’t climb that fence!
HIM: I’m going in!
ME: No! Don’t leave me here all alone!
Josh fell to the ground, despondent. “My kitty …”
“I know,” I said. “I know.”
“What if … ?”
“Shh. We know she’s in there. She’s not lost.”
“How sure are you that she’s in there?”
“I’m almost positive.”
“How much?”
“Um, 80 percent.”
“That’s good, right?”
“I could be wrong.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Me too.”
[silence]
We decided to try the emergency services again. 911 told us to call 311. 311 told us we had to wait until 8 a.m. for animal rescue. I told off the 311 woman, telling her that my sick cat who doesn’t have working kidneys was in a strange parking lot and she might not last the night because she needs her medicine, but 311 Lady was a coldhearted wench. We called our local police precinct, who told us that if we scaled the fence, it’s trespassing but we wouldn’t get arrested if we were saving our cat. They told us to call the fire department because they have ladders and stuff to try to get over the fence in the front, as nobody had the ability to get through the electrified fence we were standing in front of. We called the fire department, New York’s Bravest, who save kittens from trees and all that shit, and they totally wouldn’t help us save our cat. Wouldn’t even come and check it out. I called the school, which shares the parking lot, but there was no security person to answer the ringing phone. We had no help, no way to get inside, and we hadn’t seen a glimpse of the cat in an hour. It was getting windy, and the temperature was dropping. It was 3 a.m.
In the meantime, Josh had taken to chasing after every cat he found walking down the street. We couldn’t catch up to any of them. “She could be anywhere,” he said forlornly.
“Gwennyyyyyyyyyyy, treeeeeeeeeatssssssss …”
STAGE #5: ACCEPTANCE
We started to regroup. We figured that, at the earliest, people would start showing up to the school and to the church around 6 a.m. and could let us in. We mapped out which way he’d go once inside the courtyard, and that I’d guard the gate outside. We figured if we lost control and she ran out of our grasps, we’d go straight home and start printing out Lost Cat flyers, the saddest flyers in the world. I started thinking of which photos to use because I’d taken some good shots of her lately. We thought this would be a good one:
And then we settled down to wait until sunrise, figuring that whatever was going to happen would happen and we’d just figure it out as we went. The thought of all the care we’ve given to this pet — the dozens of vet visits and the hundreds of shots and the multitudes of cans of prescription food — and that we’d ended up losing her in the most careless way was something that we just couldn’t entertain, it was too devastating.
Josh went back to the apartment to recharge his cell phone. A couple minutes later, I heard the front door shut and I heard him call my name. I walked into the middle of the street and he was waving me over.
“Bring all our stuff,” he said.
I collected the flashlights, the water bottles, the cell phone, and walked toward home.
“What?”
“She’s here.”
“Shut up. Where?”
“She’s been inside the whole time.”
It was 4:30 a.m.
STAGE #6 (invented): DENOUEMENT
When Josh went inside to look for his cell phone charger, he turned around and Gwendolyn was sitting behind him, looking at him like, “Where ya been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
WHATever.
We still have no idea where she was. The apartment was torn to shreds and we have no clue where she went. Also, we feel like giant assholes. And we can’t even claim that we found her: She found us because, apparently, we were the ones who were missing.
Here is what we learned:
1. Despite the small detail that our cat wasn’t missing, the city of New York completely failed us that night.
2. I spent three hours yelling, “Gwennyyyyyyyy, treeeeeeeatssssssss!” to absolutely nothing.
3. The cats would not come to us when we called because they weren’t ours.
4. One of those cats was completely white and looked nothing like Gwendolyn.
“I’m glad we didn’t wake the priest at 4 a.m.,” Josh said.
“I’m glad we didn’t have the fire department cut down the church’s barbed wire,” I said.
“Yeah, that would have been REALLY embarrassing.”
Seriously, could you imagine?
So, because “Saturday Night Live” has already claimed Lord and Lady Douchebag, Josh and I have decided that we’ll begin answering to Duke and Duchess Dumbass. It’s not flattering, but it’s our reality. We’re huge idiots.
I was so exhausted at work on Monday that I kept checking to make sure I put on pants.
posted by Marla at 6:34 PM
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