Wednesday, July 4, 2012
4th of July, Liberty Laundromat
The Houds returned from their big trip to Rawleigh in fine fettle, although it was turrible hot in the old S-10, with only minimal air, and them stacked like sardines in their carriers back behind the seats. But they made it back, and are mostly just perturbed that they are not allowed as yet to tussle and frolic as is their wont. Perhaps this is the fundamental lesson we see in the unreconstructed portions of 'Murica. A bunch of people, primarily white men, who just cannot stand the idea that maybe they can't do exactly everthang they want, when they want, as they want, and leap in frustration at the imagined bars of their imagined kennels, howling at figments, conjuring up absurd banshees of fear from nothing but cobwebs and cracker crumbs.
So it was, for a time, with Wuzzy in particular. We even brought him up to bed with us, hoping he'd "settle down," as the parents say. All he did was attack our feet. Fuzzy meanwhile was chasing his tail in his kennel. They're all so used to the distractions of each other that, when faced with existential aloneness, they immediately go insane. Fuzzy as a tail chaser--how extremely undignified and unlike Hiz Honor, who of all the three is most Kingly and Patrician, and tends to sit aloof on a table or chair while Wuzzy and Grey Bear roll in a ball on the floor till they tire, or are brought up short by rolling into their water dish and finding themselves suddenly sodden.
I think by nightfall of the 4th they'll be released and back to it. There are no signs of any problems with the tiny surgeries. The vet told us that they were already a bit overweight--no doubt due to our relentless feedings. We'll try to do better. Maybe we can have them outside, where they are absolutely fine to dine on all the squirrels they care to masticate. We'll pay for the wormings to see the squirrel population decline. But really, I don't think that's the trajectory of this. Right at this moment, Wuzzy is sitting quietly in the kitchen window, enjoying the breeze and the view, and not trying to tear open the screen and make his escape. This is exactly what we imagined. This is perfect life with cats. At least in my book.
Now, if they'll all just stop attacking our feet at night, when we're asleep--everything will be perfect in the land of the free. Meanwhile, I'm taking sparklers with me when I go to do the laundry in a bit. What a celebration. What a country, huh?
Update: Here's some serious reading, and an example of why too many American voters have no idea at all what's going on:
Mr. Brooks is easy to read and easy to find. He's even on PBS once a week. What he says is simply accepted by millions of people I'd imagine. But it takes some extra work to find analysis of his columns, such as the work linked above. And the question is, why does PBS and the New York Times allow Mr. Brooks to just propagandize, week after week, on issues of such importance.