Boots on Hotels

Terribly brief background:  Boots by name, cat by trade.  Would be nice to have cool name like Solomon (like as in the ski boots) but my staff (Mom and Dad) are not terribly original.  Yeh, you got it: black cat, white paws, white throat.  You could call me a "Tuxedo" cat.  That's okay.  I've been called worse

Boots on Hotels

Hotels are not meant for cats. They are meant for dogs, and this is particularly evident at the front desk. 

When a dog comes in, there is a flurry of activity, arms reach out to pet, dog biscuits are offered, questions concerning age, breed and size (“He’s just SO cute”) abound.  Of course, the stupid dog just loves it.  Never mind they bark.  Never mind they leave poop on the lawn and yellow spots in the grass.  I digress.

When I’m carried in, clinging to Mom for dear life, I can expect:

1)  “Is he declawed?”  Only the front end, sweetie, but I can take out an eye with one back claw.

2)    “You won’t be leaving him alone in the room, will you?”  Of course not.  They drag  me down here to save on a kennel, I  shed all over the car, poop in the back seat  and you think they are going to take me with them?”

I note, there are no Tuna Treats at the counter for me.  Nosirree.  Not that I would touch them, if there were.

We take the elevator.  We are in proximity with A DOG.  This one in particular is a Chihuahua, which is Spanish for Big Rat.  I outweigh this piece of meat by a good four pounds.  We eye each other.

Mom is mummering things like “Good boy, Boots.” I lay my ears back and give a low-throated growl.  The dog shrinks into its owners arms.  I now think, perhaps, I have five pounds on it. 

“My, what a pretty cat you have,” the owner smiles at Mom.  Meanwhile, I dig my claws into Mom’s ribs to prepare for launch.  She grips me tight.

“Thank-you.  I’m afraid he’s not fond of hotels.”  No kidding.

The elevator doors open and we step out.  I wiggle enough to get my head over Mom’s shoulder and sent Rat Boy a hiss.  “Boots!  Be nice.”  Right.

I am now strung steel, tense with anticipation of the next encounter.  Mom tries  to get the keycard in the door lock with one hand.  With the other, she flattens my body against her chest.  I respond by hooking my back claws into her waistband and stretch over her shoulder, looking for escape. 

The door opens.  She throws me on the bed.  “I’ll be back in a minute.”  Don’t knock yourself out.  The good news is, this is a king sized bed.  I can hide under the center.

I leap off before the door has closed and charge below, just about mashing my nose when I bang into the board running around the edges of the bed.  I creep under the skirt in search of a sucker hole.  Maybe they didn’t get the board all the way to the wall.  I am disappointed in this.  I  punish Mom by hiding under the bed skirt.  I don’t know my tail is hanging out. 

She returns, with Dad and luggage, scoops me up in her arms with, “Oh, you’ll love it here,” and releases me once again to the bed.  Obviously, another hiding place requires discovery.

They unpack and I explore, encountering, of all things, another cat!  Gad!  Mom went and brought in another cat and didn’t even mention it!  I rear back and hiss at this intruder and it hisses at me.  This is one good-sized cat.  I dash under the bed skirt and peer out.  It’s gone.  Where did it go? 

I sneak out and slither along the baseboards.  No sign of it.  I begin a more aggressive search and suddenly, there it is!  It looks wild-eyed at me and I bound over the dresser, do a quick bounce off the bed, race into the bathroom, do a scrambled 360 and dive under the bed skirt, careful of my nose this time. 

“Booter Boy.”  Dad drags me out, claws ripping the carpet.  “It’s a mirror.  That’s you.”  We stand in front of this atrocity and I see Dad.  And that’s me?  I scramble out of his arms and back under the bed skirt, mortified.


Because I don’t sleep well in strange places, and because I’m miffed at Mom and Dad for even taking me to this place, I devise ways to punish them during Prime Time:  1:00 a.m. to 3:30 a.m.  One must be organized about this.

Approximately 1:00 a.m. is best for getting into the litter box, whether needed or not.  I like to start small, with just a few scrapes, then work myself up to a frenzy of flying clay.  With a good shot, I can reach the hallway.  Generally, this activity wakes Mom up.

“Boots!  Boots!  That’s enough.  Go to sleep.”  The idea here is to stop long enough to let her drift off again, then restart.  After about three times, I wear out, get bored and take a well-deserved nap for a couple of hours.

Around 3:00 a.m. is the best time for a buzz.  I like to let out a yowl, just for fair warning, then go into ping-pong mode.  Bounce from bed to dresser, to sitting room, take a gainer off the closet door, scramble in the bathroom, back to the bed, preferably landing on one body or another.  It’s Dad’s job to calm me down. 

“Here, Booter.”  He pats the bed.  I am not fooled.  I  launch my next round off his stomach. 

“Maybe, we should leave him at the kennel, Honey.” He moans to Mom.

“Yeah, maybe.”

I think I’m winning a victory here.  What’s a kennel?