Yesterday, something peculiar happened. Something so peculiar I have never stumbled across it before in all of my years weaving my way through the World Wide Web.
I was doing research for a column — which will run in Wednesday’s paper and probably be posted on this blog once it hits the driveways — and I clicked on one of the Google results for my search terms, and Google dutifully transported me to the page.
When I arrived, and I kid you not, this happened.
Before I could read the story, someone or something absolutely had to know whether I have a cat, multiple cats or am catless.
You can’t make this stuff up.
Flabbergasted, I scanned the ad and noticed I had options.
I could click an answer and tell whoever wanted to know whether I have a cat. I could choose another question to answer or I could share the page I wanted to look at on Facebook.
I was not going to choose another question. The cat one was so weird I didn’t want to think about any other questions possibly hiding behind the link, such as whether I’ve seen “Jersey Shore.”
I didn’t want to share the page to Facebook, mainly because I had no idea what was on it.
When the cat question arose it blurred out the rest of the article.
Why in the world would I share something on Facebook without knowing what it was?
I chose the first option, and answered I have one cat.
It was the truth. I do have, or claim, one cat.
Her name is Hazel, and I’m not exactly sure she’s a she.
I hope she’s a she because if she’s not a she his name is woefully unfortunate.
Hazel took up at our house some time ago, began eating all of our old cat food and hasn’t left since.
She (or he) is healthy and seemed to respond well to her name so it stuck.
Why Google had to know about her before I could read an article is beyond me, but I answered.
No fanfare transpired when I clicked the “I have one cat” button.
I was simply ushered to the article, read it and went on my merry way.
I’m still slightly disappointed there wasn’t a video of a cat breakdancing.