I wanted today to talk lovingly about pets but since one of our cats, Leo, keeps on keeping me up at nights, I think I should have entitled this blog something more like Cats, The Other White Meat. Or maybe War Pigs in homage to the anti-war screed of Black Sabbath. (I know that makes little sense but work with me, people, work with me!!).
Leo the Boy Cat will get to live though I see a swirly in his future. What, you’re not familiar with this time-honored tradition? One where, at a disrupted 3 AM, you scoop up the loudly offending pet, hoof over to the toilet bowl, insert cat/push plunger, and rename him Mr. Clean? Great Results: the bowl is now sparkly and Mr. Happy then spends the day grooming the indignity away. And plots your demise…
Why aren’t snails pets? They don’t talk back. And they’re hits at a party when they tango with sea salt. I like Siamese Fighting Fish too, though I don’t like to spool them up by putting another one too closely. Never seemed nice. I mean, do you do that with cats? Politicians? City planners? Music critics? Network engineers? These things, folks, are solitary entities that Know All and, roam alone and are the centers of their own universes.
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