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suspire (suh-SPYR) verb tr., intr.
To breathe; to sigh.
[From Latin suspirare (to breathe up), from spirare (to breathe).]
I don’t really like being wide awake at 3:30 a.m., the cat pressing on my leg, a kid snoring in my ear. I like my kid — I like both of ‘em, thank God — and I like my cats — all three of them, but at 3:30 a.m.? What I really like is sleep.
I’m running the dishwasher (finally), blogging, catching up on work e-mails. Yeah, baby.
You?
wm
We love chickens around here. We don’t have our own, mind you, but the neighbors do. They have three (per city ordinance: three chickens allowed, no roosters). We love other people’s chickens, would be a better way of putting it. The cats? The chickens are bigger than any of our neighborhood cats. And we have some big scrappers over here, so that is saying something. They are free-range chickens, in the truest sense. They go for several strolls every day, and they have their boundaries. Our driveway is their eastern border; the neighbor directly across the street from us is their southern border. A half-block north is their northern border. The edge of their own yard is their western border. So I wasn’t surprised this morning to hear my son ask:
“Dad, you know chickens?”
“Sure, I know chickens. What about ‘em?”
“Well, one time, at Grandma’s work, this guy brought in chickens!…” Long, rambling story about chickens follows.
Now I’m thinking — Denver grandma? Iowa grandma? Portland grandma? Hmm. Who knows?
Here’s a joke from Julia Roberts — she told it to David Letterman when I saw her on his show one time. She sez: “Actually, it’s just the punchline — You have to come up with the joke.” Ready?
“You may be living off love, but you’re killing the chickens.”
happy Saturday, all of youse.
wm
The antibiotics reportedly taste like “GRASS and DIRT! I hope you KNOW THIS!” says my son.
I do know one thing — if you’re yelling and complaining like that, you’re feeling better.
Will keep you all posted. Happy Thursday. Sorry 13ers — no list of my own today. But the whole trying to get the kid to take his antibiotics reminded me of this…
HOW TO GIVE A CAT A PILL (more…)
I love this crazy clip. Thanks to my father-in-law for sending it along.
Go read Nan’s story about her doggie, Towser. You might cry a little, but it’s so worth it. Someone else misses her black Lab, too.
Have you been reading this blog for awhile? Do you remember last year when my dog died, then we got lice and were dirty sluts, then I got rilly rilly sad?
I don’t feel so sad right now, although of course I still miss my sweet little 100-pound dog. This is your friendly reminder to go check heads at your house, shampoo regularly with tea tree oil, and get some sleep. (I don’t know why I threw that one in. I guess we all could use more sleep. And hydration. So drink a glass or two of water, would you?)
Also, if you have a dog, go take him for a walk and give him a pat on the head from me.
Love,
WM
Dooce got a dog for Christmas. A DOG! Jon got her a dog. Hockey God did not get me a dog, even though I requested a dog, like, seventy-five or ninety times.
I need a dog, doggone it. I already have a bed for it.
Wanna see pix of our newest family member? He’s over there in Flickr, purring. Where did we get him? From our yard. He was out there in the rain, skinny, hungry, covered in fleas.
Meowing all the time and wanting some pets on the head.
Not neutered. Of course he wasn’t neutered, so there are all kinds of cats, younger than he is and looking just like him, oddly enough, throughout the neighborhood.
He was catting around.
The kids: “Mom, that little black and white cat is back!”
Hockey God: “What a surprise.”
After I dropped the kids off at school in the morning, he would be stretched out on the parking strip, hunting birds and mice. He’d meow hello at me. I fell for him. Put him in a cat carrier, took him in for shots, neutering, de-worming, de-fleaing. Then he was supposedly to go off to the Humane Society, where I would track him on the computer until he found a home, or go rescue him if he didn’t.
You can probably guess how that one went. No room at the inn, me on the phone, my husband saying, “Take him home, already,” excited kids, happy me, one blissed-out kitty cat, stretched out on a blanket on the best chair in the house, sleeping. And eating. And sleeping some more. He’s doing OK with the other cats, although being Young Stud he is a little too rowdy sometimes.
Then I get a call.
Female voice (sniffling and snorking): “I’m calling? About your little black and white cat?” (sobbing.)
me (worried he’s been hit): “Is he OK???”
Female on the other end of phone: “Yeah, he’s not hit or anything, he’s on the sidewalk here? I’m petting him. It’s just… Where did you get him?”
me: “From our yard. Wait.. he’s yours?”
Yeah, he was hers. “Was,” I just said. Because after she talked with my daughter, explained the deal, and I got back on the line, she decided we needed to keep the (un-neutered, flea-bitten) kitty-witty.
Female voice: “She’s real attached to him now, huh? I got him off Craig’s List for ten bucks. He’s sweet, isn’t he?”
Me: “Yeah, he’s adorable.”
He’s a little over a year old. Much back and forth, that went like this… are you sure? I don’t want to steal your cat, here. Not that I’ve ever done that before. Uh, maybe I did, but just that once. No, really — it’s okay, we got two other cats. Us, too! Yeah, it’s a small kitty-cat world, isn’t it? Are you sure it’s OK? Yeah, I got him for my mom, but she will be so glad to hear your daughter loves him so much. She really does love him. Thank you. No, thank you. Really — thanks.
So welcome home, for keeps, Wacky Cat 3. We love you.
Hockey God, on his way out of the room, tells me, “I’ll see you in bed.”
Then says to Wacky Cat One, “I’ll see you in Hell.”
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