catputer “Door-to-Door Crackdown on Dog and Cat Licenses Begins,” screamed the headline of the Press-Telegram on July 29. Crackdown? Only about five minutes ago the Mayor’s cat was lounging on the front page, getting his license. Now a house-to-house search party for scofflaw cats?

First, I am not a Crazy Cat Lady!  (Or a bad Nixon impersonator.) I’m not against this effort to cut down on cats wandering the streets, and creating other unwanted cats in the process. I know there are about 200 cats in the animal control shelter right this minute that may not make it another day.

But I am against this seemingly fascist attempt to help bail the city out of the red with another revenue idea. My rights fly out the window when a citation for an unlicensed cat is left on my door because I’m not home—with the prospect of a third violation resulting in a fine. What happened to innocent until proven guilty?

According to a representative of Long Beach Animal Control Services, staff members are more than happy when helpful neighbors point out units where there are animals, even if they are house pets. Reminds me of a phrase from the The John Birch Society song: “If your mommy is a commie / then you gotta turn her in.”  Today they’d sing “It’s a pity ‘bout your kitty / but I gotta rat her out.”

That said, I’m now in panic mode. I don’t want the storm troopers getting my 16-year-old Kitty. She’s had cancer surgery, major dental surgery and suffered the loss of her housemate-daughter recently. She hardly eats and seems to be losing her sight. She hasn’t got the energy to run away from home, let alone go out a late-night “date.”

I don’t want to subject Kitty to a car ride to the vet. Cats don’t stick their heads out the window and dangle their tongues out in the breeze like Fido loves to do; they hunker under the gas pedal and shriek to the high heavens. Then there’s the rabies shot which some feel is more hazardous to an older cat than the threat of the disease (find me a case of cat rabies outside of a farming town). 

It’s also mandatory to prove the cat has been spayed. That was 14 years ago, people.  Who knew some little receipt from the ASPCA in 1996 would come in handy in 2010?  Especially when it was the ex-husband who took Kitty for the surgery. A man who couldn’t remember to carry his driver’s license would not come home and create a new file labeled “Important Cat papers.” So there’s another vet expense to have Kitty examined and verify her surgery. The total on this “free” license is adding up.

So, what to do? I’m out of control, my overactive mind racing. Nothing left but to go underground. A new version of a Paul McCartney song keeps me humming “Cat on the run…..cat on the run!”

Think, Louise … what have other fugitives done?

Anne Frank! Hide in an attic in Amsterdam! Nah, won’t work; above me is someone else’s unit.

Saddam Hussein! Dig a spider hole in the basement!  Nope, no basement—that’s somebody else’s unit, too.

The Barefoot Bandit! Steal a plane and fly to the Bahamas! Fat chance—Kitty wouldn’t ride in a little red wagon, let alone a small plane.

I know! Disguise her! That’s it! I’ll dress up Kitty, and when they come knocking for her I’ll play it cool: “Nothing to see here, officers, just a couple of sock monkeys on the book shelf.” A search of the Internet for cat clothes yields lots of sites that think it’s me that wants to dress like Cat Woman. Closest I could come was www.spoiledrottenkitties.com.  Kitty in a pirate costume doesn’t seem very doable. She’d never go for the eye patch, and forget a wooden paw.

Meanwhile, while I am out buying cat food and litter at a store in another county (can’t be too careful to avoid running into neighbors with allergies who might put the clues together), I have visions of Kitty at the computer furtively searching out countries without cat extradition laws. Far away safe places … Cat-mandoo, Purrsia, Cat-alina. (Cats don’t spell well and they are punsters).

Boy, is my dander is up!  (Dander, by the way, is defined on the Internet as “scurf from the fur of animals.” What th–? I’ve got no time to Google scurf!).

Later, I take a breath and realize that I may eventually have to cave in to the Establishment (and turn in my 60’s hippie membership). But I worry about older ladies with several cats—both the lady and the cats both being frail and probably living on a small income. What will happen to cats who did no harm by living quietly in a house where crocheted doilies grace the arm chairs? Is there no way to “grandfather” these older companions in? My 20-year old car didn’t have to endure a smog examination and pay a fee, for cripes sake.

I’d never forgive a government that forced me to give up my best friend. My eyes fill up just thinking about coming home after a long day, turning the key in the lock and knowing that my little 5-½ pound girl is not there waiting and looking up expectantly as the door opens.