Just as I began to lace up my work shoes I keep on the back porch, a dead mouse fell out of the left shoe. The cat who lives outside provided a trophy. I am happy to report that my startle reflex is intact. Our younger daughter named him “Vinnie the Vagrant” because he just showed up around the time of Covid. And stayed. His other name is Vincent the Vanquisher because he kills rodents, birds, and small snakes. While he prefers to live outside, he does come in for the occasional cuddle with Lisa or to steal the food of Odie the Wonder Dog. He also makes a point of greeting visitors with purrs and requests to be picked up. Is there any creature quite as smug as a cat?
Just another tequila mockingbird...
Things and more things filter through my mind, snips and snatches I can't explain. And sometimes things happen to me that are just plain weird. So I'll share a few. Why do people look at the hymnal in their hands when they're singing the "Hallelujah Chorus" with 1,328 "Hallelujahs" in a row? Same for that song with all the "glorias" in it, "Angels We Have Heard On High." Same words, over and over again, singers looking at the book. LOOK UP, PEOPLE! YOU LOOK STUPID!
I never knew it before today, but "Tequila Mockingbird" was that novel written by Harper Lee. Students really need to read more. Maybe they were thinking of Jimmy Buffett.
How do I explain having a cat in my underwear the other day at our "escape cottage"? I could explain it, but I won't. But if I don't explain it . . .
I did not watch one minute of any college football game last week. No wonder I don't feel well. It's been decades since I could say that, and trust me, it's not going to happen again.
I have had two concussions in my lifetime, both provided by baseball bats. One, by my older sister. One by me. Both stories should generate concerns, by you, about my cerebral functioning. On the other hand, it might explain a few things.
I was struck by lightning one time on I-95 south of Jacksonville, Florida. That might explain some of my snarled synapses, too.
Do you detect a pattern?
Bather of the Cat
Mark Twain once said, “A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way.” I will build on that and say, you can learn things about a young cat by giving that feline it’s first bath that you can learn in no other way.
For example, I thought the extent of a wet cat’s physical reach was comparable to its reach when it is dry, or about 15 inches. That was a mistake. A wet cat’s physical reach when it is being given it’s introductory bath can reach all four walls and the ceiling in a medium-sized room. Simultaneously. And those itty-bitty velvet paws grow from the size of a silver dollar to that of a hubcap.
Perhaps you cat owners were wondering why on earth was I giving a cat a bath? Cats are clean, you might say. Cats bathe themselves. Cats are fastidious. Tru dat, but when those little representatives of Satan’s Empire stroll through poison ivy and then rub up against my wife, who is hypersensitive to poison ivy, and donate to her rash, blisters, and weeping sores, a bath for the cat is necessary. The doctor said.
And, since my wife is hypersensitive to poison ivy, the honor was bestowed upon me to become Bather of the Cat.
The cat objected. I had a good grip on her neck (oh, the possibilities missed!) and her two front legs while I lathered her up with Dawn. She reminded me that she had two more feet and they had talons that would make a vulture jealous.
I now have three slash marks on my left forearm that look like the logo from a can of “Monster” sports drink. They are not scratches. They are, to be accurate, rips. They will scar. They were deep. I bled as much as I did when I hit myself in the head with a baseball bat, which was more fun.
When it was time to dry off the little queen, my proximity to the microwave was enticing, but Lisa was overseeing and blocked my way.
But Lisa can’t always be around now, can she? Now, where is the little Princess? Here, kitty kitty kitty. . .
