Friday, May 16, 2014

Psycho Jungle Cats

I recognize the fact that every day has twenty-fours in it and that every week is comprised of seven such identical units of measurement.  That being said, some weeks just feel longer to me than others.  This is one such week.  My little brain hurts.  Welcome therefore to "Free-for-All Friday". 

Apparently, Margaret's boss stops by this space every once in a while.  Laughing as she told me this past weekend, my bride let slip that he commented to her that I appear to have "anger issues".  Hmmm... He and I have never met but kudos to him for a fairly prescient - albeit not entirely accurate - observation.  I am merely doing what I can to honor the diagnosis of Irish Alzheimer's Disease:  You Forget Everything...Except The Grudges.   In his defense, he is not Irish so he likely is unfamiliar with that particular affliction. 

I am not a fan of NBA basketball.  That being said, I did enjoy reading in various places all of the bluster from the Brooklyn f/k/a New Jersey f/k/a New York Nets prior to their recently-concluded playoff series against Lebron James and the Miami Heat, which centered on the fact that when the teams played in the regular season the Nets won all four games.  Huh.  In the playoffs, it took James and his teammates only five games to dispatch the Nets.  Apparently, most of the games were not especially close although the final game in the series was decided by two points.  I look forward eagerly to the Nets' Public Relations Department putting a positive spin on the ass-kicking they just absorbed.  Something such as, "We beat the Heat 5 out of 9 times we played them this year" or "Proud to have won the season series 5 to 4" or some such twaddle. 

As a guy who owns two cats - including one who is appropriately nicknamed SixPoundsOfHate (she has her own hashtag) - and one dog I got a kick out of the instant YouTube classic "My Cat Saved My Son":

The one thing that I found most troubling about the video - and this may be due to nothing other than the fact that I have not looked into it any further - is the fact that it captures the dog's approach towards the unsuspecting little boy, which suggests to me at least that someone saw the animal coming.  Yet there is no adult involvement until after the boy is (a) attacked; (b) dragged a bit by the dog; and (c) rescued from possibly more significant injuries by the most homicidal psycho jungle cat this side of Hobbes. 

I shudder at the thought of having to rely upon either of our cats to save me from being torn life from limb.  As Spring has sprung, Margaret and I have been sleeping with our bedroom windows open - including the one under which the bed is located.  Boo (a/k/a SixPoundsOfHate) has grown accustomed to using me as her landing pad when - after her curiosity is temporarily satisfied - she dismounts from her window seat.  In the past week alone she has landed on my face and left arm, leaving scratches in her wake that have drawn blood, and just the other night immediately below my last rib on my left side.  She woke me up just for the purpose of attempting to knock the wind out of me. 

Facts are facts.  If she is all that stands between me and certain death,  then I am a goner. 


And Margaret's boss thinks I have anger issues...


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