I strolled down to the kitchen for a simple glass of water.
I happened to be chatting on the phone with my friend Susan at the time.
We were discussing (among other things) the merits and features of a variety
of minidisc player/recorders (notably, the Sharp MD 302 and MD-MT 15s).
As I spoke to Susan, I noticed that the cat with no brain (below, left)
wished to go outside, while the cat with some brains (right, in black and
white outfit) wished to come inside.
While I had no objection to the cat with no brain (hereafter
known as Maisie) going outside, I did and do object to the cat with some
brains (Guy Kitty) coming inside. This Guy Kitty is not allowed in
the house late at night, owing to his irritating habit of equating decorative
throw rugs with kitty-litter. Guy Kitty is about two steps from feral
kitty-hood, and in fact (it should be noted) was never acquired by
any member of this family. Rather, he acquired us: allows us to feed
him and pay his vet bills and launder his ruggy- litter on an as-needed
basis. We allow this blatant manipulation because he has so very
many more brain cells than the other two, and it is refreshing to be around
a cat who seems to be thinking, for a change.
But I digress. I attempt to
maneuver these cats into their optimum states and I succeed, I think, rather
elegantly for a person who is also trying to discuss digital recording
with a phone wedged under her chin. Enter the dog (photo not available).
Trixie (as she is known) also seems to be intent on moving outside.
I blithely assume she is eager to do her business, as my mid-western relatives
would have said. Off she trots, onto the deck, into the night.
Pets accounted for, I return my attention to my conversation with Susan,
which has somehow turned into a dialogue about stereo receivers: Dolby
Digital or Dolby Digital-ready? Suddenly, the dog returns, faster
than a twelve-year-old-dog should return. And then I smell... this
horrible, choking, eye-wrenching smell... and I'll bet you didn't even
know you could wrench an eye, did you. Well, you can. And I
did, they did, my eyeballs were wrenched by the stench (rhymes!) of a very
angry skunk. Trixie dashes into the kitchen, stinking (as Louden
Wainwright so eloquently sang) to high heaven. After a terse explanation
to Susan, I hang up the phone and launch into a kind of Howard-Hawksian-grace-under-pressure
mode that is astonishing in one up so far past her bed-time. Trixie
is attempting to "lose" the smell by rubbing herself against a variety
of expensive, odor-absorbing yet unwashable pieces of furniture.
It is then that I realize that I am about to experience something new.
I will soon be stringing three words together which have (in my life until
now) gone happily, even blissfully un-strung:
