August 11 2007, 11:24 PM This Is Not My Cat

Consider distance.

I was settling in to make some blueberry jam, or chocolate syrup (I hadn't decided) when a call came in from Ms. Tanner. There was a small crisis concerning a cat (hers), in that the cat was ill, needed to go to the vet, her petsitter had no car, and she was four hundred miles away.

I like cats. Health is a fragile thing. And I have a car.

So I scooped up the cat in her carrier, an hied her some ten miles east to some very good folks to make sure that whatever it was, it wasn't serious. Ten miles to the east is easy; should you wish to, fetch a map of this place and consider the route from Oakland to the far end of the Miracle Mile, out where 22 makes a careful crossing of 48. The parkway makes this simple, and somewhat quick. I think the cat could have used less road noise. I also think that the cat likes Pinback rather less than the lute music of Venetian courts five centuries past; this was unclear. In any case, once the car calmed down, so did she, returning to her sweetheart self.

We spent some time there, filling out forms, relaying histories, reading a book and scritching heads. The mechanics of that were somewhat complicated, but it was cheerful to be an element of human effort that conquered four hundred miles of distance, if not with ease, then at the very least competence. I am pleased to report that the cat is fine, or at least mostly fine. There are no bears in that basement tonight.

And yet: I was left with something of a problem.

If you consider the map, you will note that I was now ten miles east of where I needed to go. This was tricky: the parkway in that direction is very badly broken this weekend. Adding to the tricky were the many, many carloads of folks using said broken route in an attempt to get to the Steelers exhibition opener, and those that knew better were spilling over into all of the others. This is the same ten miles as before, but now fraught with peril and doom. I had a map of my own; I decided to try to be clever.

Around here, that usually means getting lost.

I really need to get around to finishing the essay on this: one way to think about dealing with traffic in this place is to consider the problem much like a jeweler, sitting down to cut a stone. Find the planes, and go gently. For myself this afternoon, this meant finding a way back to Oakland that would be utterly useless to anyone attempting to get to the game. I've used this trick before at other places and times, and it has served me well.

This time, I took 48 to the old Penn highway through Garden City, then up Jefferson to nip along Frankstown, cutting across to...

I'm not sure I should say. I imagine somewhere around here is a guild of navigators, artisan, with whom are kept the arcana of getting around this county. To join them is to endure a harsh apprenticeship, only turning right. To rise to the ranks is to understand the South Hills. One is elevated to Master only when one knows where that bridge goes. It would not do to spill secrets.

I will say this: it worked. And for that, the cat didn't mind at all.