Aug. 31, Midnight. Chicago, IL.

The Penske was packed, Otto was finally in his pet carrier after quite a bit of coaxing (i.e. me cursing and shoving that fat-ass into basically a purse), and I was off to get my co-pilot, Jillian.
It had been, ohhh, maybe a year since I’d driven a car, much less the monstrosity that is a moving van, but I triumphantly got that husky sonofabitch from the rental location, to my house, to Jillian’s without disaster.  Total distance: 5 miles.
Hooray!

My feelings of optimism couldn’t even be shaken by the howls of pure agony emitted from the pet carrier.
‘Oh baybee boy, it’s okayyy. Shhh shh shhh, now, buddy, you’re fiiine! Calm down bay-beee, pleeease.’
I couldn’t help but giggle as my precious angel very dramatically smashed his face against the mesh door, hoping to break free. I found it especially hilarious when he clawed and scratched at the walls, making the entire nylon carrier move and shake like a scene from a cartoon. My sweet boy was not happy, but I was confident he would relax once on the road.

Jillian opened the door and stared at the cage, watching it bounce all over her seat.
Jillian did not share my sense of humor on the matter, for she quickly realized the size of the cab guaranteed the carrier would have to rest on her lap.  And those nylon walls were not going to stop the claw tornado Otto had become.
I figured her lack of excitement was because she’s a dog person.

Off we go!

45 min into the trip.
The fur demon hadn’t been silent for a solid 60 seconds, and my patience disappeared some 20 miles back.
Jillian had been clawed and bitten through the carrier at least three times, but we kept him in there because we had been instructed (by seasoned cat owners) to do so, no matter what.
Thus began the discussion of drugging the little asshole.

We’d heard rumors of Benadryl but were unsure of the dosage.

We agreed to give him another 30 minutes to calm down, assuming he would wear himself out sooner than later.

2 hours later.
‘That goddamn motherfucking cat has not shut the fuck up for 30 goddamn seconds!!!!  Are you fucking kidding me?!  Jesus Christ Otto, I swear to God, I’m going to fucking throw you out the goddamn window if you do not shut up!  What the hell is your goddamn problem?!?!  Jesus Christ, I cannot fucking listen to this shit for another minute or I will lose my mind!!’

‘Calm down, Dani, he seems to be getting a little better…’

He hadn’t. I could feel my brains melting out my ears I was so pissed.  How could I endure another potential 12 hours of that crazy shit?? It was everything in me not to pull over, yank him out, and punt him like a football across the field.

He was fitting so badly, he had started to choke and cough, making me hate him even more.

*Outlook not good.*
We called the emergency vet.

Jillian: ‘Uh, wait, so Benadryl is poisonous to cats?  Really?  Is there anything we can do to calm him down?  No?  Nothing at all?  Oh, geez, okay.  Well, thanks for your time.  Okay, bye-bye.’

We had to pull over. All I wanted to do was take the tire iron out of the back and smash the front of the truck repeatedly, but I chose to take a lap around the parking lot instead.

‘Jillian, let’s just let him out.  I don’t know what else we can do.’

Understandably we were nervous he was going launch straight for our jugulars, or leap onto the pedals when we got back on the road, or both. Either way, that goddamned animal was surely going to make us pay for what we’d done to him.

I unzipped the carrier.

Otto quietly walked out.

We stared, bracing ourselves for the mauling.

Instead he sat, quite calmly, on the dashboard…for the remainder of the trip.
Un-fucking-believable.

Approaching the 14th hour of travel and we were still nowhere close to our destination.
NOTE: driving from Chicago to New York takes an average of 12 hours. True, one must factor in traveling by a gas-guzzling, ever vibrating and deafening metal box on wheels, but 14 hours and no end in sight?
Something was wrong here.
Something was wrong, indeed.

Keep in mind this trip went down before the glorious GPS now mandatory in every vehicle, so also keep in mind our only directions were printed out from Map Quest and our cell phones were merely flip phones. Therefore, by the time we realized we were fucked, we’d apparently been bending over for a few hours without our knowledge.   Although we were traveling in the right direction, our destination was incorrect, which only added more time required in our hell.
Not to mention the various pit stops made to ask for directions, purchase maps, call friends with computers, etc.
Damn it. Damn it. GODDAMN IT.

Once we figured shit out, things went smoothly…until we approached the city.  What materialized out of thin air was an instantaneous wave of narrow roads and ramps, confusing round-abouts, construction detours, and NEW JERSEY DRIVERS.
Jillian, having experienced my cool, calm, and collected traveling self for all of 6 minutes the entire trip, wisely suggested she drive the rest of the way.

By the time we found our exit, we were left to figure the ass-backwards streets of Brooklyn. These were, of course, conceived (not to mention constructed) by those one can only assume were the heaviest of New York’s drinkers.
At the very least, the hours passed quickly due to the distractions of trying to solve the maddening puzzle – which only amounted to a mile and a half from where we needed to be.
Bouts of psychotic laughter were occurring more and more often and our sanity was a dull flicker at this point.

But, as we approached the 20 HOUR travel mark, we pulled up in front of my home-to-be. Oh thank Christ!

Aaaand wouldn’t-cha-know-it, we HIT A FUCKING CAR in the process.

Now I will spare you the details, but I will sum it up by describing it as the most upsetting 3 hours of my existence, thus far.

Not only had we just driven 20 hours straight, gotten horribly lost many times over, contemplated murdering an innocent animal, and passed the point of exhaustion and dementia a hundred miles ago; we were then forced to listen to this wretched excuse of a man call us ‘Stupid fucking bitches’ repeatedly until the police report was finished and he decided to take his ratty sweatpants-and-house-shoes wearing self inside.

It didn’t matter that we apologized profusely. It didn’t matter that it was an accident the Penske insurance I bought (thank you God, thank you God, thank you God) was going to cover completely…

Did I mention he threatened to ‘kick my ass’ along with my boyfriend’s ass?

Um, did I mention he is MY NEW FUCKING NEIGHBOR?

I quietly walked upstairs into my new bathroom, sat on the floor, and cried.

Day 2 in this Hellish Shithole they call ‘BedStuy’.
Jillian and I decide to go eat brunch and get drunk.
Very drunk.
Stopping on the way home for a handle of vodka, the biggest bottle of Jameson they carried, and whatever else we could afford.

Day 3 in Shit Stuy.
I walked with to Jillian to get a car to take her away from her nightmare/my new reality.  She had an early flight home, and God love her, I knew she couldn’t wait to escape. She looked at me with utter pity and sorrow knowing she was going back to my old home, Chicago, and I had no choice but to remain. What had I done?
I was sad.

I did not cry, but I was very sad.
As I headed back to my place, I decided to walk to the block where I parked the truck.

It was not there.

Assuming I was mistaken with the location, I walked down another block, over one more, and still nothing.
I decided to go back to bed.

A couple of hours later, I returned to the original spot, but this time I was, unfortunately, 100% certain I was in the correct location.
That mobile turd was gone like a fart in the wind.

After calling the city’s towing system to see where the truck is being held, I was informed there was no record of the truck in any facility.
Excellent.
The truck has been stolen.

Now, this part of the story really makes me laugh:

When filing the police report, one of the officers asked if I was moving ‘in’ or moving ‘out’.

‘Moving in’
His eyebrows raised and gave me an are-you-serious look I will never forget.
Shit.
I just laughed, nudged him, and said, ‘C’mon now sir, you can’t do that!  It’s not that bad, right?  I’m from Chicago!’
‘What did your parents say when you told them you were moving here?’
‘To be safe, ‘good luck’, and, ya know, work hard…’
‘Did they tell you to buy a gun?’

!!!!

‘Whaaat?? Oh, uh, no sir…I have Mace (showing him with hopeful eyes)’

‘That’s not strong enough around here.’
Don’t cry. He’ll know you’re weak. Don’t cry.

The other officer laughed sweetly, remarking that the area was getting better, and he (the other officer) was being dramatic.  She was a doll for saying that, and I could have seriously hugged them both.

They were my new best friends… My only friends. I was officially freaked out and the idea of making some friends with guns seemed like a damn good idea.

Just me, Officer Gentry, and Officer Bowen. Besties.

‘Just remember not to ever walk with your head down.  Don’t walk with your iPod earphones in, and don’t talk on your cell phone neither.’
‘Yes, sir’
‘Okay now, take care of yourself’

I stood on the stoop and watched my armed besties drive away.

I hung my head in defeat and walked back into my house.

A couple of hours later, one of the officers called to say they found the truck at a privately owned towing company, and then she wished me luck again.