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Be One with the Cats

Sitting in the semi-dark of my hallway, playing pass the ball between myself and my cat, at least until it gets so late we might disturb the neighbours. Our other neighbours, the ones in the rotating rat-trap-might-be-meth-lab next door, have been yelling and blasting rolling mixes of '70s rock and heavy (mostly thrash) metal. The metal, mind you, includes a cover of Joan Baez's Diamonds and Rust, which is shot through with occasionally brilliant bridges of something that sounds better than the original. Right now, it's '70s? '80s? Popular songs whose names I should know. The current song is one of those, has a recognisable synth line at the end that goes, "doo-doo-wee-wee-doo-doo". Suffice to say, we are all aghast at their music choices.

Wearing the pink Angry Birds pajamas my boss lady got me as a nice present last year. They were made for a fourteen year old Asian girl. Since I never gew after age fourteen anyway, they fit great. The fluffy one meanders over to interrupt our ball toss, partly because she doesn't understand how playing works, partly to lead me back to the kitchen for a treat. The fluffy one is growing elderly and grumpy, like there should be a meme made in honour of all her grumpy expressions. The Dorling is clever enough to kick rubber balls back at me. This was a game I loved to play when I was little. It was fun enough with another kid around, but it was a game I could play with myself and still feel like I was playing. He stares at me now with a kind of gentle wisdom that cats spontaneously develop at a certain age. Yes, even Sif.

I have cautious optimism about the carrot and mustard green sproutlings coming out in my EarthBoxes. They are mild weather tolerant, San Francisco is being cold. We may not have enough sunlight that they never mature. Any number of cryptic predators and curious digging maine coons might kill them before February. Overcooked, rubber-tough lima beans in butter are a number one source of neighbourly maine coons, did you know that? We have a visitor. He keeps trying to move in, and wonders why no one brings out the tea and biscuits. The maine coon, CMOS says his tag, nips my hand when I hold it out for him to sniff, and hoots sadly as he trudges off. It's all very well for him. All that Arctic fur keeps out the cold, and his ginormous size keeps other cats out of his hair. I would worry CMOS doesn't get fed enough at home or will one day imbibe some scavenged scrap he shouldn't, except a) Dorian is rather well-fed and still eats everything we don't nail down, and b) Dorian's eaten enough weird stuff to prove that the cats who wander around the neighbourhood scoffing random items probably have the Iron Stomach trait. He is a cat after my own heart. CMOS might be, but it's not like I can pet him, and I'm not partial to sharing my cats' treats.

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March 2019
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