Mango would like it known he resents being cast as the ominous murderer in so many of my recent blog pet pictures, to which I reply, “Perhaps you should stop looming around, terrorizing Ansley. Maybe stop making blood-lusty throat-goat warbles and giving yourself minor brain damage by hurling your face into the glass in a futile attempt get at my little birds.”
Now he isn’t speaking to me. CATS! Such DIGNITY. A cat is little more than a massive scoop of dignity surrounded by a purr-box and some hair. And yet God also made them hilarious.
SO hard NOT to laugh at a cat, really, when he leaps and misses and smacks into the wall and slides down it like Wile E. Coyote. But if you do, they stalk off, mightily offended, tails up and their little winking butts radiating clenched and angry I MEANT TO DO THAT-ness. Ask me how I know.
They didn’t mean to do that. You know it, I know it, the cat knows it, but it is better, and kinder, and leads to a more peaceful house, to tamp the laugh down and nod sagely and agree. You clearly meant to do that.
I think a cat is my spirit animal, as I have too much personal dignity coupled with INSANE klutziness. I can trip over DUST MOTES, but if you laugh at me as I go comically sprawling face first into the cat-box, I will stalk off with MY tail up.
Mango and Man both have had a morning here. Mango is being petulant, sitting stiff and scowly on my desk instead of lolling in my lap as I work. He, you may have guessed, ios the wall-smacker, and I am the fool who laughed.
Scott went downstairs to push the coffee button and did not come back up for an hour. When he did, he stank of virulent cleaning products and was much surlier than is his want. Took a quick re-shower in bleach, and then stomped out to go to work, only to stomp back in and say, “My tire is flat.” He changed his tire, then said, “Imma take out the trash and go.”
At the trashcan, he discovered Sam had simply crammed the bags into the can and hurled the rest into a heap. Here in Decatur, your recycling is all free, but trash you pay for PER bag. You have pack all the regular bags into special Decatur bags. Sam had stuffed the can without bothering to do this. So Scott had to unpack the can and load all the trash into the proper bags. He finally roared away, only to roar back.
Hi, he said. I forgot my wallet.
I am terrified he will be killed by a truck not four miles from the house, the way things started here. And the cat is still not speaking to me…Two of my most favorite fellows are having CRAP days.
HOW IS YOUR STUPID MONDAY GOING?