Things That Make Me Cry

“Oh, goodie,” I can hear you saying now. “This ought to be uplifting. Anyone want to skip this one and go get some donuts?”

Tell you what, if you are mad at me by the end of this post, I’ll buy you your very own personal donut and ship it to your home address, any flavor you want. Okay? Okay.

Back when Poppa was so very sick and we spent more hours than anyone wanted at Vanderbilt, we found ourselves in need of some nighttime sitters. See, Poppa was struggling with Sundowners which basically means he was out of his head and hallucinating a whole lot. Only now can we laugh about some of his stories because only now we can accept the loss of him without feeling gutted all the time. Anyway, at night Poppa would get feisty and Brother Bear, Coach and I each took turns hanging out overnight to keep him in the bed, clothed, and stuck with all the appropriate tubes. Each of us still had to work and travel and take care of children so there came a point when we all got too sleepy to be effective. Enter Caleb.

The first night that Caleb arrived, I thought to myself, “Oh, Lort. Poppa’s not going to like this one bit.” Caleb was young. He was wearing a Bob Marley nightgown as a t-shirt, and under that he had some baggy pants and over that he had a flannel shirt. His hair was neatly pulled back from his forehead and ensconced in a ponytail holder but from there his afro exploded outward into the biggest puff of hair cloud I’ve ever seen. He had his backpack over one shoulder and he dragged his feet when he walked. Poppa liked clothes that fit, hair that was neat and youngsters who walked like they were walking, not shuffling.

Right away Caleb went into the hall and got himself a bench to sit on despite the comfy chair options he had inside the room. He placed it a foot away from Poppa and sat upright, posture better than mine, and very, very still. Right away he familiarized himself with the equipment attached to Poppa. Right away Caleb put a reassuring hand on Poppa’s toe, letting Poppa know that he wasn’t alone. And when Caleb saw me petting Poppa’s head, he got up from his bench, picked up one of the comfy chairs and placed it next to Poppa’s bed so I could pet him without getting tired. He told me the story of his grandfather who died when he was six, how he and the grandfather did everything together, literally everything, and how he wanted to help people deal with sickness because he was good at it and he knew what it was to be scared. I can attest that he was good at both helping those who are sick and helping those who are scared.

Poppa was oblivious to all of this, or so I thought. He reached over to his hand and began tugging at a tube to yank it out, something he had done with great regularity since day one of the stay.

“Hey, buddy,” Caleb said for the first of a thousand times that night, “don’t to that,” and he gently pulled Poppa’s hand away.

Poppa looked over at him and said, “Kid, I need you to take me home. Go around and get my car and I’ll meet you out front. Jimmie, you meet us at home, this kid is going to take me there.”

God, I laughed. “Kid.” Oh, Poppa, I miss you.

So that makes me cry. And this makes me cry, because it reminds me of Poppa in the best and fiercest way, but also because it is a picture of life, of getting back up when you fall down over and over again. Isn’t this picture great?

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Baby owl learning to fly, photo by Peter Brannon

Speaking of pictures, here’s another, from the cruise My Girls and I took in March.

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This was in Jamaica, and I’ll be honest, Jamaica was not my favorite place. It was hot which I suppose is normal so I can’t fault it for that, but it was pushy and smelly and we were seen as walking wallets. I guess tourists often are seen as ATMs but I can’t say that’s how I like to make an entrance into a new place. Anyway, after a whole day of grasping our purses close to our body and being made to feel very guilty because we did not part with all our funds for all time and on into eternity, we finally escaped through customs and back onto the port where our boat was docked. That picture was taken right outside that customs shelter.

I bet you look at that picture and see a mildly interesting array of boys banging on some drums, but what I see is a crew of kids who were hustling. Hustling. Those boys stood there in those hot-ass uniforms that they picked up somewhere, mismatched buttons and hats and pants, and they played their hearts out ALL DAY. They played for every person that showed even a modicum of interest. They danced for every person there and played for every person there, sometimes on their knees at our feet when they could tell someone was particularly moved (me), and sometimes as the whole line; sometimes it was a Michael Jackson song and sometimes it was just the thrum of our collective heartbeats, banging in time with the drums. If a single person watched alone, they played just as hard as they would for a whole crowd. They hustled, and it was all I could do to hold the tears back as I watched them with their young hearts and their strong arms and their glistening foreheads, trying to make a better way for themselves. I hope you see them my way and offer your prayers for them, that the hustling pays off and they get a solid shot at whatever they try, because their work for those moments on the drums is more than enough to earn them that. I also hope you realize that it took an extraordinary amount of time for me to come back to myself, what was left of me anyway, and stop the leaking in my eyes so I could count the money I had left after I dumped all I could find into their tip basket.

With that, I’ll take you to the next picture that makes me cry. Not fierce, not sad, but just about the cutest thing I ever did see in my whole life. For those of you who do not understand my deep and yearning, burning desire for a donkey, behold:

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Donkey being toted by a soldier

I have to stop. I need a donut. This whole post is killing me.

In conclusion, and I promise to you and me both that this is the end, I have one final story to tell.

Two years ago Martie and I reached a tentative agreement wherein she would take possession of the house and property called Big Creek, the family abode where we did most of our growing up, and in return for me not getting my panties in a twist over it, I’d get a donkey. By tentative I mean that I was thrilled that Martie, the most sentimental of the wad of us, would preserve our history and that Martie sort of agreed with a wavering voice that maybe, someday, perhaps there could be a donkey on their property that I’d get to name. Maybe. One day.

Pretty much I asked about that donkey every time I went home to babysit Pooh and Tigger. I drove over to the neighboring farm that housed the show donkeys to stare at them, and I pointed out the fuzzy and cute regular non-show donkeys we saw while driving the back roads in my home town. I’ve stated my earnest and deep desire to marry a donkey farmer more than once and have already mentally packed my truck in anticipation of his proposal, this farmer with his burros whom I have not yet met.

This has been a fantasy, and like all fantasies, I understand that it may never come to pass. That is okay. Still a fantasy, still nice to dream about, but likely saved for my mansion in heaven where God assuredly has a donkey with long eyelashes already waiting for me.

On Saturday, that fantasy became reality. You guys! I’m getting a donkey!

My birthday card from Martie, et al, received Saturday, June 11th at 5:13 pm, which she asked that I read aloud and which I couldn’t because the tears started in my throat and made it to my eyes and my voice which shook so badly I could not speak:

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Pictures will be coming forthwith. In the manner of someone who is expecting a child, I shall expect gifts and fetes, and I’ll register for hay and donkey brushes and festive neck attire with which I will adorn his or her neck and take selfies. Rest assured I will be crying in most of them but these will be tears of joy and love and the knowledge that my family loves me more than anyone rightly deserves. I am loved more than I can fathom. I’ve got it so good. Thank you, God. Selah.

Now, who needs a donut?

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How To Win Over and Influence Your Owner. A Guest Post by Seamus.

Hai.

Person has the treats. Did you know this? I learned it when Person bought me.  I thought they appeared on my scratcher after I finished my nap under the bed.  One day I got behind the refrigerator and got stuck (must lose weight) and she sat on the floor looking at me for an hour and she had treats in her hand!  I wouldn’t dare eat them from her hand because then she would know I knew they came from her, plus I was wedged in there pretty tight.  Some guy with a furry face had to move the refrigerator before I could get out but after that when I found treats on my scratcher, I knew they came from her.

This complicates things. I thought there was a treat fairy but it’s Person.  I’m not sure I like her, really.  How do I get more treats from Person?

After thinking about this for a few years, I have devised a plan to get more treats. You can use this too with great success.

  1. Wind your body around her legs. You don’t have to get close or actually touch her, because horrors! But, if you kind of twist your way in a figure eight near her, she will see this as a sign of affection and give more treats!
  2. Groom her. This usually involves stuffing your face into her hair but horrors! It is so close! You can trick her by separating with your claw two or three hairs from the wad on the pillow and then lick those with great fervor. She will see this as a sign of affection and give more treats!
  3. Greet her at the door when she comes in from Outside. Meow firmly. Do not back down. When she makes noise at you with her mouth, this is a sign that she hears you and is going to give treats! In case she forgets, run from the door to the scratcher and meow firmly the whole way. She sees this as affection and gives more treats! Note: sometimes the couch gets in the way. Pay attention to it! It hurts your head when you hit it and makes you forget to meow.
  4. When she wakes up in the morning is the best time to remind her you have had no treats in a really long time. Also when she goes to the bathroom. Also when she comes in from Outside. Also when she climbs into the bed. By the way, did you know that on the bed is better than under the bed? It’s so nice up there and I don’t get stuck!
  5. The last trick is the hardest one. Use it as a last resort when she’s being very stingy with the treats. Climb onto the bed when she is there. Sit next to her and stare. You would think that she would see that as affection and give more treats! It doesn’t work but it’s a good start. What you have to do next is reach out with your paw and tap her arm. Murphy does it all the time and she whaps him on the head a lot when he does it which he says is affection, but lame. No treats there. Anyway, after she whaps your head a lot, crawl in between her body and her arm and purr. She sees this as affection and gives more treats!! BE VERY CAREFUL! You can be lulled into a false sense of security while lying there and go to sleep. Do not put your head down under any circumstances or you will wake yourself up by snoring too loud after a long time of sleeping. Humiliating. I was drooling. Horrors!

This will work for you. Try these plans.  The end.

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Editor’s Note: These do not work.  Seamus gets no more treats now than he ever did although it is pretty cute to watch him try so hard for them.  Also, he likes me!  He really likes me!

I Don’t Mean To Be Dramatic, But . . . .

Car 1

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This is how my Wednesday started.  Again.  I’m sure you all remember last summer when my car had a come apart on four separate occasions and I and my savings account fell apart right along with it.  I got all of that fixed and we have been happily driving together for just over a year now.

Here’s the truth of it.  I owe $87 on my car.   We all know what that means.  I’m terrified to make that last payment because the precise moment that payment clears my bank, my transmission is going to fall out of the bottom of my car on I-40.   I thought that’s what happened on Tuesday night when I was stranded alone at work, yet I’m proud to say I didn’t cry even once.  Have I grown up? Am I callused?  Maybe.

What I did do was call roadside assistance (the program I’ve paid $2.99 a month for seven years for and only used once) and ask for a jump start.  After dissecting everything that happened when I turned the key, roadside assistance opted to have me towed instead.  It was late, dark and 27 degrees so rather than wait for an hour on a tow truck, I decided to let it sit overnight and called Pee-tah for a ride.  He’s such a gentleman.  He rescued me, offered me dinner and dropped me off at my door when I said no.  He knew better than to push too hard.  This is why we date so well.

Wednesday morning I cornered the maintenance guy I like so much, Daniel, and asked for his help.  I just wanted someone with more knowledge than how to crank a car to tell me what I should expect to hear from the repair shop when they give me the skinny and the cost.  Remember last year I paid far, far too much to get my brakes done (screw you, Firestone) because I am dumber than a box of hammers when it comes to cars.  To prove to Daniel that I do know something about a car, I ran down to the parking lot to open my hood in preparation for his ministrations and in doing so, saw something utterly disgusting.  Murphy (screw you, Murphy) had either barfed or had some sort of intestinal disturbance on the hood of my car, right between the hood and windshield, actually.  I hate that cat sometimes. Why does he do this to me? Why?!

I grabbed a wad of napkins from my car – I keep them to blot the shine from my nose and never thought I’d have to use them to clean unspeakable Murphy innards from my car – and cleaned it off, hoping that Daniel would never notice I’d been driving around with poop on my car.  Oh, hurk.  Oh, my stomach.  I threw it over into the grass, very far from my car, and threw the wad of napkins away. Lunch was not going to happen that day, I could already tell.  Blergh.

This gets worse.  I want you to guess who stepped in it. Just guess.

Poor Daniel who is so sweet and so sincere in checking my battery and banging around under my hood, that guy who is just the nicest man, doesn’t really stand still all that well.  I forgot about that when I threw Murphy’s guts.  I remembered it, though, once Daniel started pacing and then I got nervous.  I threw the innards very far away from every car, very far away from where everyone walks.  I made sure of that.  But Daniel in his pacing walked right in it and I was horrified.

It was a sudden realization for him.  His foot squished and he stopped and said, “What was that?”

I just stood there.

“Oh my God, what was that?!” he questioned as he looked at the bottom of his shoe.  “Oh, gross!  Is that mud?  That’s mud, right?” He began shuffling on the grass, making his way over to the sidewalk to scrape his shoe.

“Is that crap?  Did I walk in dog crap?” The look on his face was so disgusted.  I just stood there, and I could feel the laughter start bubbling from the very bottom of me.  I know it isn’t funny!  I know that!

“Oh, God,” he said as he scraped his shoe over and over, “it’s really sticking.  Man, this is sick.  I’m going to have to buy new shoes.  Damn.  I have to go to Bowling Green today too.  What is that?!”

Y’all, I felt horrible.  So, so bad.  And I looked right at him, watching him scrape his shoe in disgust and said, “I have no idea.  Gross.”

I’M SUCH A TERRIBLE PERSON!

Daniel, one of the nicest men I know, felt really bad for me and said over and over, “Jimmie, I’m so sorry about your car. I wish I could fix it for you.”  And all I could do was nod and squeak out a thank you and try my damnedest to not let the laughter that was literally taking over my whole body not explode out of my mouth.  Why am I so bad?  I deserve to have my transmission fall out of the bottom of my car.

Turns out, however, it was just a bad battery.  The kind people at Firestone offered to install one for merely $144 plus tax and labor (screw you, Firestone) so I drove on down to Advanced Auto Parts and got one for $116, tax and labor included.  Got to get my savings back up for when the shocks rust and disintegrate into nothing, you know.  Once that last payment is made it will happen.  Perhaps I’ll buy Daniel a new pair of shoes, too.  I’ll take it out of Murphy’s cat food allowance.

Days (Day) Of Our (My) Lives (Life) – Best And Worst

Oh, y’all I think Tuesday was the worst day of my life.  (That might be a slight exaggeration.  The day I melted deodorant into my makeup bag was pretty bad, as was the day I had to have my car towed due to a dead starter and my neighbor, whose driveway was blocked by the tow truck for LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES, had a hissy fit about potentially being blocked in her garage for LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES on the off chance she might suddenly need to go somewhere which we all knew was ridiculous as she had, literally, just arrived home.)  (I read a lot of Faulkner in college.  You are welcome for the run on sentence.)

Tuesday morning I had the sinking realization that Seamus was missing.  I had a suspicion on Monday evening when he didn’t come galloping out from under the bed when I shook the treat bag, but occasionally he is moody and stuffs himself up inside the box springs to hide.  It isn’t unusual for him to forgo his happy part of the day (i.e. treats/peas) so that he can sulk alone.  I texted Martie about it Monday night and even she, who doesn’t like cats nary even a little bit, was worried and offered to call so that she could commiserate with me.  Tuesday morning I had to text her that it was official.  Seamus was gone.

When it hit me, I started to shake.  Seamus is older and slightly pudgy.  He’s weird and emotionally stunted.  He likes Murphy, treats and the white fuzzy blanket on my bed.  Once he sat on my legs and purred but when he realized that Murphy was nowhere to be found, he leapt off me and went under the bed.  Despite all of this, and I’ll say this at a whisper, Seamus is my favorite cat.  DO NOT TELL MURPHY. 

With tears in my eyes, I started looking under the beds and in the closets to see if maybe he had passed in the night, alone and wadded up in box spring.  I couldn’t find him anywhere and suddenly had the weird notion that maybe he had gotten outside.  I immediately rejected that.  Seamus, even when the door is open for hours on end, will stick one paw and one ear out the door, and like a kid dared to run into the cemetery, will immediately bound back into the house, all giddy and spastic as if he’d just done the scariest, bravest thing of his life.  In short, he never goes outside. With that thought, I left for work, teary-eyed and sad, still wondering where I would find his lifeless body.

Halfway out of my neighborhood, I realized I left my purse at home.  I drove back and ran in quickly to get it.  Guess who was standing outside the back door. Just guess.  That little turd had been outside gallivanting for two whole nights and when I opened the door to let him in, breath whooshing out of my lungs, he pranced around, clearly proud of himself.  I could have beat him.  I tried to hug him but he made a beeline for the food bowl so I settled for just rubbing his ears for a minute.  Since I was already late for work, I left him alone with his food and his friend.

When I arrived at work, I still had a bit of bile in my throat from the worry and then the sudden joy.  My legs were still a little shaky.  So when I happened to look down at the ground and saw that my jump drive, the jump drive that holds everything I’ve ever written over the last two years, the only jump drive that I own and the only place where my writings are stored, was mangled under the tire of a car, wet and covered in dirt, I started to cry.  I know I should have backed all that up.  I know that.  You won’t yell at me any louder or more harshly than I already did myself.  How it got from the bottom of my purse to the bottom of a tire on someone’s gigantic four door jeep is beyond me.  I just know what when I picked it up the mangled metal fell apart in my hands and I was devastated.  No way could I recreate all that work.  No way.

I dusted it off and took a look at it through my watery eyes.  The end that plugs into the computer looked okay and once I blew the dirt out of it, I stuck it into my laptop with my hopes lunging up and down.  I waited.  Then waited. Then waited some more.  It was nauseating.  After an eternity, the window for the drive opened giving me access to all my files.  They were all there and every single one of them opened. I immediately wobbled my way back to Katniss and said in a hoarse whisper “Give me a jump drive.  Now.”  She saw the look of panic in my eyes and handed over her brand new one.  I wobbled back to my desk and did the drag and drop into to the new device.  Then I ordered two more drives from Office Depot, one for me and one for her.  I’ll repeat the process again when it comes in, and then hide one away in a safe place and the other will be stuck in my bra at all times. 

Talk about a roller coaster.  Tuesday sucked.  And then Tuesday was glorious.  Best and Worst, all in 24 hours.  That was a lot for one day.  I need a drink.

Oh, BTW, this was Seamus when I got home last night.  I love that stupid cat. 

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I’m Not Sure I’m Cut Out To Be A Parent: Or, Oh Murphy . . . . .

So it turns out that Murphy is a brawler. 

My sweet little annoying ten pound cat got outside last week and it wasn’t long before I started to hear some truly terrible noises coming from the street.  It was a cross between a cat being smushed by the tire of a car and children screeching at each other in a sing-song “somebody’s gonna get it” refrain.  With heart threatening to pound right out of my throat, I threw open the front door and bolted out my walkway, barefoot and wearing decidedly inappropriate pajamas, only to find my affectionate beloved orange puffball beating the absolute snot out of another cat. 

You may have many reasons to think me naïve or call me a bit of a ditz, but give me credit for having sense enough to not break up a cat fight, especially seeing as how skinny little Murphy was blown up like a watermelon, tail twitching with his ears laid back flat.

I scurried back into the house to wait it out while Seamus paced nervously by the front door and eventually settled in his new safe place under the lighted Christmas tree.  Within the hour, Murphy yowled at the front door to be let in, and in he stalked, looking a little more broad through the shoulders and with a bit of swagger. 

Later, he sat at my feet as I “powdered my nose” (something he does without fail nearly every single time I have to go) and looked up at me with sleepy and peaceful eyes.  He was completely serene.  I noticed he had a small chunk missing from his ear and as I raked my fingers through his fur, I dislodged pieces of cat claw.  Then all throughout the night he would leave the bed where he was cuddled up next to me to visit the toilet and splash around in there, maybe washing himself of his bad behavior? Whatever his reasons, I woke up to water all over the seat and floor.

I’ll say it again – I suppose getting a red-headed cat and giving him an Irish name and plenty of opportunity to drink (from the toilet) was a bad idea if I wanted a docile lazy aloof cat. That’ll teach me. 

A Guest Post, By Murphy

Okay, people, we need to have a word about the Smushy One.  I need for you to talk to her for me.  She’s gettin’ all weird about me going outside.  I’m a grown cat.  I need to roam free.  I need my space.  There are also some ladies that require attention and quite frankly, they get irritable when I don’t make our dates.  It’s enough to drive a cat to drink.   

That guy who lived here, the one with the Quivery Dog, used to let me out all the time, and I gotta tell ya, I got a taste for it.  I spend an awful lot of time telling the Smushy One about it, too, like for hours.  She ignores me, though, and won’t open the door no matter how much I claw at it or how loud I get.  Sometimes when she opens the door, I’ll make a mad rush and get free but the Smushy One gets real grimace-y when that happens.  Usually I puke up some grass on her carpet afterwards, to show her who the boss is around here.  She yells a lot when that happens. Man, those are good days. 

Also, while we are on the subject, can you tell her that I really need the whole bed to myself?  I mean, I’m ten pounds.  I need my space.  I’m particularly interested in the pillows right now but she insists on hogging the one that I want, all the time.  Seeing as how I’m not sure which one I want every night, though, she should just give them all to me.  Tell her that, okay? Lately I’ve taken to spreading out over both of them, right in the middle and I think she’s finally getting a clue.   

And while you are talking to her, make her leave my face alone.  I like the dirt.  It gives me a rakish air that drives the dames wild.  She keeps cleaning it off and I tell her, “I’m a grown cat.  I need my space.  Leave it alone.” But she doesn’t listen.  It’s exhausting.

Don’t make her too upset, though.  I heard rumors of a tree being put up with lots of clanky glass balls on it.  I want that tree!  I’ve got a hankering to climb one and since she won’t let me outside . . .  

Mrow.

Murph

The Story Of Mini: A Guest Post

I really have so many things to write about and for various reasons they won’t seem to just come along already.  Probably it is laziness and lack of discipline.   

What will come easily is the story of Mini.  That dog is hilarious.  Potential Roomate is on a trip and I promised to take care of Mini like he would in his absence.  That means coming home at lunchtime in order to let her outside as her bladder is about the size of a walnut.  (Turns out walnuts can hold a decent amount of liquid as evidenced by the stain on my carpet left the day I didn’t make it home in time.  Yay.)  It also means snuggling with her at night and sharing my cherries with her.  It means introducing her to the neighbors and letting her burrow under my blankets.  She is a burrowing dog, my gosh. 

After we established some ground rules for staying at Jimmie’s house, I had a chat with Mini and told her about this here blog.  She said that since Murphy and Seamus got to write guest posts, she wanted to write one too.  I let her.  Turns out we share everything in this house.  Food, (both dog and cat), my bed (with both the dog and cats), the bathroom affection in the middle of the night (both dog and cats) and my blog.    Following is Mini’s essay. 

 

Things that Excite Me! by Mini

Girl! She excites me! When she comes home! 

(Editor’s Note:  Mini spends a lot of time being excited when I arrive.  Really, a lot.  She expresses this excitement by running up and down the stairs and occasionally barking at me as she tries to climb my leg.  Then she peals out for the front door and back to me, back to the door, back to me, at least 10 times before I can walk the five steps to the door and get it open to let her outside.)

Oh, licking!  I love that!  I like licking Girl when she talks, right in the mouth!

(Editor’s Note:  Combine the dog kisses right in the mouth with the fur Murphy leaves on my lips when I talk and I know you want to make out with me, right?)

The Hose!  I love the Hose!  I want to destroy it!  I don’t know why!

(Editor’s Note:  Mini also spends a lot of time being excited about the hose and the water that comes out of it as I water my scraggly tomato plant which has given me exactly four oddly shaped tomatoes.  She snaps at the water, getting it up her nose and in her ears which she later hurks up and scares the snot out of me.  She sprints from the spigot to the plant over and over again until I finally turn off the water.  At this point she takes the end of the hose in her mouth and drags it around the yard.  This dog weighs maybe seven pounds.  She cannot jump into my bed because at regulation-size, it is too tall for her.  She does the scrabble, scrabble, scrabble to get enough traction to jump onto the couch.  She struggles with the tiniest of tasks, yet she has defeated the hose.  Oh, Victory, thy taste is sweet.  And wet.)

My squeaky toys!  When Girl comes home! I run up and down the stairs squeaking my toys! 

(Editor’s Note:  Pic below.  That is all.)

Cats! I want them!  All mine!

(Editor’s Note:  Murphy and Mini have come to a truce.  They no longer hiss and lunge and squeal and quiver.  They do occasionally sniff the general area where the other has been and Mini is still a great fan of licking the carpet infused with his fur.  They both have established a spot on my bed; however, those spots couldn’t be any further away from each other.  Seamus regards her with . . . I don’t even want to say indifference because he likes to look at her.  But he doesn’t seem to show any interest in his looking at her.  It’s weird.  Yet I can find him on the floor next to the bed every night just looking at her. Currently, as I edit this, I have all three animals on the bed with me.  Mini is snoring stuffed up under a blanket.  Murphy is wound up on a pillow on my stomach.  And Seamus is lying next to me just being next to Murphy.  He is vigilantly eyeballing me in case I decide to pet him in which case he will bolt under the bed.  But he wants to be next to Murphy so he endures me.)

Car! I want to ride in it!

(Editor’s Note:  I got nothing here.)

 Aack!

  

Surprisingly, Seamus also had more to say.  He is usually the quiet one so naturally I wanted to let him have a go at this again.

Guest Post by Seamus.

Hai. 

I might like dogs.  They have food and I can eat it. 

 The end. 

 

In other completely unrelated miscellaneous odd news, Sammie (Nanny School?  Remember Sammie?) has gotten some sort of ladybug infestation in her dorm room.  This dorm houses about 8 or 9 other females and of all of them, Sammie is the only one with the ladybugs.  Probably there is some perfectly logical explanation for this yet I am stumped as to what that could be.  I should do some Google searching to see why she is the lucky beneficiary of the tiny red bugs, but you read above about laziness and lack of discipline, right?    Anyway, Sammie has scored an interview with Very Important People.  I hope it goes well for her.  I choose to think that the ladybugs will bring her luck.  I hope the position that she wants is the position that she gets and that the Very Important People treat her well and with respect and take her on lots of fancy vacations and give her extra spending money for those vacations and that at least one of those vacations is on the beach.  And one is in Europe so she can have chocolate croissants for breakfast in the streets of Sienna and possibly make out with Italian boys named Luigi who are not gross.  Good luck again, Sammie!  You have worked hard and you will make an excellent nanny.   I’m sending you a mixed tape soon, eighties-style.  You’re welcome!

 

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