Hoboken Hostage Crisis

Yesterday was the worst day of my young life. Even worse than being out on the mean streets of Communipaw as a kitten. The peeps once again rammed me into my carrier and once again I was seated in between them in a cab headed for trouble. I didn't realize just how much trouble and pain I was in for. I couldn't possibly imagine that my Pop would dump me and leave. I thought they'd return after they went across the street to stuff their faces at Dunkin Donuts. After all, Pop doesn't drink coffee and is trying to cut down on his sugar in—aha ha ha—take. His sugar—aha ha ha ha—intake, I meant to say. Sorry I couldn't keep a straight face.

To get back to my story, what started out as any other V-E-T visit, soon turned ugly. How ugly? you say. Spine-chilling ugly. An accomplice to Dr. Evil waited for me in the examining room and quickly shoved a cold metal object into my anal cavity. She asked the peeps if they preferred any certain doctor. TW didn't want Dr. Evil because she has something against doctors who are young enough to be her grand-daughter. They voted again Dr. Sox because that's how deeply the hatred runs in the Yankees/Red Sox rivalry. Apparently if Dr. Sox saw Pop's NYY jacket, he'd extract all my teeth and sell them to Big Papi Ortiz to wear around his neck while he crushes that juicy Yankee pitching. So we were "Lucky enough"—and I use that term with as much sarcasm as I can muster—to get the head of the team, Dr. Sadist, who's been at the hospital since 1982.

Don't let Dr. Sadist's smile fool you.

I didn't like Dr. Sadist from the get-go. I hissed as he opened my mouth for a look-see and a sinister smile curled at the ends of his mouth. The peeps gave him the laundry list of things they needed him to torture me with—teeth cleaning, i/v fluids, blood test for Bartonella, distemper shot, and nail trim—and he happily obliged. He asked which paw they wanted the i/v in since they had to shave it. Then the accomplice told the peeps they could kiss me one last time and I was whisked out of the room, screaming and kicking.

They took me downstairs to a cold dungeon and the torture began. I saw the torture racks and manacles. To my credit, I put up such a fight, they had to sedate me so they could sedate me, if that makes any sense. I don't know how long I was out, but when I awoke, I realized the peeps still hadn't come back. One of the other animals told me, I was being held hostage for $1000. He told me he hadn't seen his peeps in over a year. Oh no, what if the peeps can't come up with the dough, I fretted. My cell phone, it's gone! OMC, these aren't just sadists, they're terrorists, I then realized. I wanted to call the peeps and warn them. I wanted to call Tuna one last time to say Goodbye. I wanted to send a Twitter SOS as I'd read the Iranians did last year. Somehow, I managed to find a cat with an i-pad who let me log onto my Facebook account. The i-pad had a clock which told me exactly how long I'd been in Dr. Sadist's torture chamber. I posted: CATHY KEISHA HELD HOSTAGE: HOUR 6. Will the torture ever end at 2:33. No one responded. No one read it or took it seriously. No one cared.

I then looked at my Twitter account and found that TW had hacked into it. GASP! She was telling my furrends that I was having my teeth cleaned and was fine. I WAS FINE! FAR FROM IT, WOMAN. I had a catheter in my shaved paw and nothing but metal bars under me and I WAS FINE?!?!?

TW brought her camera w/her, she forgot to use it.

Finally in the 7th hour, things began to look up. The peeps had raised the blood money. I was proud of myself. I didn't crack and didn't tell the terrorists any of the information they tried to pry out of me. America's secrets would die with me if need be. The harder they tortured, the more resolve I had. The peeps heard their final act as they viciously yanked the catheter out of me. I growled, screeched and hissed while Dr. Sadist tried to cover it up by telling the peeps things like I "was a hand full" and I "didn't play well with others."

I vow that their little game will soon be over. I think the peeps have an obligation to expose this terrorist organization for what it is. Write editorials to the local newspapers and online. Speak up for little animals all over New Jersey. And if they don't, Cathy Keisha will. Thank you for your time.