More Fur And Less Nicotine 8.21.97
Did I accuse those children, to their face, of being Satan's disciples? I don't remember doing that.
I pull L'il Red to the curb and D'andre is making a purposeful path to the car.
"Mr. Jim?"
"Yeah?"
"My mom said it was all right to come over here and ask you did you want to look after this cat."
"What cat?"
"I got him under your house. He might be sick, I don't know, I think he dehydrated, but he under your house now and I think he cooling off."
I should have given D'andre a big hug right then and there for using the word "dehydrated" in approximately the proper context, but I was just home from work and a little dried out and dizzy myself. Instead I said, "I don't know D, you kids have got to look after your own cats, preferably without torturing them to death. I mean, it ruins my whole day when ya'll torture those cat's, well maybe only half a day, I'm getting kind of used to it I guess."
D'andre is being kind and respectful, and Satan is nowhere in sight.
"Well, Miss M say if we have any more sick cats to bring 'em over here and…"
"OK D, I'll have a look." I walk over to the side of the porch and look under the house and see a cardboard box with shit smeared on the bottom.
"He right there," and D'andre points to a little black shape splayed flat on the dirt, about a foot from the box. "I wiped the dookey off him," D assured me.
So later that night M points to a little black shape laid flat on her pillow and I take a closer look. I'm giving this cat the evil eye on account of he might be a Trojan Horse. He recoils from my hard stare and acts all spastic and pitiful. I ain't buying it. "There's nothing wrong with this kitten, we've been duped," I declare.
M ignores me
We already have a ten-year-old black cat that we've raised (badly, I think) from a kitten. This is what I'm thinking an hour later as the black kitten is running full speed across my chest on a collision course for my chin. I can't quite grasp it but is this kitten one of them metaphors? I just won't give it a name, that's the ticket. He ain't smashed between two bricks anyway. I wonder if he is grateful for that? Maybe we're interfering with nature. That could be a bad thing. Is it possible to get too much oxygen to the brain?
My boss started whining at 6:30 this morning because my car was parked in the same spot I have parked it everyday I have worked at Muirfield Place, English Turn. Only today this caused him to have to walk across wet grass to get to the house. "Well, boo-fuckin'-hoo," I said loud enough for my boss and all the early rising, newspaper getting, punk ass bitch English Turner's to hear.
I'm trying to cut way back on my cigarette smoking. Can you tell?
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Did I accuse those children, to their face, of being Satan's disciples? I don't remember doing that.
I pull L'il Red to the curb and D'andre is making a purposeful path to the car.
"Mr. Jim?"
"Yeah?"
"My mom said it was all right to come over here and ask you did you want to look after this cat."
"What cat?"
"I got him under your house. He might be sick, I don't know, I think he dehydrated, but he under your house now and I think he cooling off."
I should have given D'andre a big hug right then and there for using the word "dehydrated" in approximately the proper context, but I was just home from work and a little dried out and dizzy myself. Instead I said, "I don't know D, you kids have got to look after your own cats, preferably without torturing them to death. I mean, it ruins my whole day when ya'll torture those cat's, well maybe only half a day, I'm getting kind of used to it I guess."
D'andre is being kind and respectful, and Satan is nowhere in sight.
"Well, Miss M say if we have any more sick cats to bring 'em over here and…"
"OK D, I'll have a look." I walk over to the side of the porch and look under the house and see a cardboard box with shit smeared on the bottom.
"He right there," and D'andre points to a little black shape splayed flat on the dirt, about a foot from the box. "I wiped the dookey off him," D assured me.
So later that night M points to a little black shape laid flat on her pillow and I take a closer look. I'm giving this cat the evil eye on account of he might be a Trojan Horse. He recoils from my hard stare and acts all spastic and pitiful. I ain't buying it. "There's nothing wrong with this kitten, we've been duped," I declare.
M ignores me
We already have a ten-year-old black cat that we've raised (badly, I think) from a kitten. This is what I'm thinking an hour later as the black kitten is running full speed across my chest on a collision course for my chin. I can't quite grasp it but is this kitten one of them metaphors? I just won't give it a name, that's the ticket. He ain't smashed between two bricks anyway. I wonder if he is grateful for that? Maybe we're interfering with nature. That could be a bad thing. Is it possible to get too much oxygen to the brain?
My boss started whining at 6:30 this morning because my car was parked in the same spot I have parked it everyday I have worked at Muirfield Place, English Turn. Only today this caused him to have to walk across wet grass to get to the house. "Well, boo-fuckin'-hoo," I said loud enough for my boss and all the early rising, newspaper getting, punk ass bitch English Turner's to hear.
I'm trying to cut way back on my cigarette smoking. Can you tell?
- jimlouis 4-30-2002 11:19 pm