Dr. M and I are being kicked out of our apartment for two days at the end of March so the management company can fumigate for "ter-mites."* Sounds like a pretense for them to come in and mess with our stuff. They're giving us $200 to find a hotel for two nights in Palo Alto (I'll have to get in touch with this guy to find out what kind of quality lodgings I can get for that kind of money). We also have to board the damn cats for two nights, which is something that we've managed to avoid doing up until now despite numerous out-of-town vacations.
So what I need from you, my cat-owning friends, is an assurance that after spending two nights in unfamiliar cages surrounded by unfamiliar animals and unfamiliar people, our cats will eventually revert to their normal selves, and not be permanently scarred by some sort of feline PTSD. I'd also like some assurance that neither of them will "turn sissy," if you catch my meaning.
*For your amusement, I am offering two separate termite jokes. One is germaine yet absurd, the other is traditional yet only marginally relevant. It's always something with me.
(1) I'll have to figure out something to do with my termite farm during the fumigation.
(2) A termite walks into a bar and says, "Where is the bar tender?"