I was wading through Scull Creek, standing in the natural sluices created by falls and narrowing rocks. The water moved with such speed that the resulting splashes against my legs created a spray that hit my face. Though it was lightly raining when I started, the rain faded, leaving an odd, somber pallor in the air. Walking barefoot in such water where I couldn’t see the stone under the water was hilariously precarious. At some point, I heard chattering above me. It took me a minute to find the source: a squirrel about six feet above me, leaning down and watching me. I talked back to it a few times as I made my way back and forth and up and down the creek. It dawned on me that the squirrel was moving in a pattern following me. When I was done in the creek, I carefully climbed the rocks back up onto the bank and picked up my sandals. The squirrel came down out of the trees and scampered ahead of me as I walked on the greenway trail. I walked past it as it sat about ten feet from the trails edge. When I turned off the trail to head to my car, I looked back to see that the squirrel had moved to be relatively close to me. By the time I made it to the parking lot edge, the squirrel ascended a tree and watched me through the corner of its eye. I chattered back at it. There was no doubt It had followed me from the creek. As I opened my car door, I looked back one more time to see that the squirrel was sitting facing me. An unusual squirrel, one probably wanting to have a polite conversation.
Evidently, today is the day for feline revolution.
I got up super early as I always do and went into Erika’s living room in darkness to fetch my clothes from the back of the couch. As I put on layers, something seemed off. By the time I threw my shirt on, I realized in horror that I felt wet. I stood there about 30 seconds, my mind attempting to correlate the wetness. And then I realized that either Acorn or Meatball (or both?) had taken advantage of one of their night time perches to disgorge on my nearby clothes. I evaluated my options and finally stripped down. Skulking around in the dark, I retrieved my haircut towel from the laundry hamper, loosely held it around my waist, and retrieved the ball of wet clothing. I scurried across to my apartment feeling like the cats were laughing at me.
It gets better! Once inside my apartment, I dropped the towel and my clothes. Because my cat Güino has me trained, I walked over to give him treats before anything else. And realized I had walked through clear cat vomit in the darkness of my kitchen apartment. I put down paper towels temporarily. As I attempted to walk away, the paper towels stuck to the bottom of my left foot like industrial glue. Extricating myself from that, I threw my clothes in my laundry and walked back to the living room. I bet you can guess what happened next? Going in front of the cat tower, I stepped in my cat’s other offering in the middle of the living room floor. And then repeated the same stupid fly trap dance with more paper towels. No need for stretching this morning. The paper towel dance limbered me up nicely.
The cats sometimes occasionally vomit. How in the world they all aligned perfectly for my early Monday morning is anyone’s guess.
Before I left for work, I asked my cat if he had any other surprises for me or if perhaps he got my extra car keys and threw up in the driver seat.
Since the cat revolution has already started, It will be too late for you by the time you read this. I apologize on behalf of all the cats for your sticky feet. We’re lucky they do not have opposable thumbs.
People aren’t familiar with axolotls. (Unless they do a lot of hallucinogens.) They’ve probably seen Pokémons based on axolotls or salamanders. It’s a beautiful creature native to a couple of lakes in Mexico. They have no eyelids, are deaf, and don’t undergo metamorphosis like their salamander counterparts. (Much like incels. PS The word “incel” is a portmanteau of “involuntarily celibate.”) Axolots can be induced to replace their gills with lungs and become land creatures. They also are intensely studied because they can regenerate literally any body part.
The word axolotl is derived from the Nahuatl language. I find this fascinating because it’s the perfect example of people arguing about how to say the word “axolotl.” Most people say “AK-suh-laa-tul.” But that’s not actually how you pronounce the word if you’re saying it like a native. It’s supposed to be more or less pronounced “ah-sho-lote.”
The Nahuatl language considers the “tl” as an odd single sound that’s not comfortable for English speakers. Much like any polysyllabic word for that matter – such as “compassion.”
As for me, I’m not concerned with pronunciation. It’s just another branch of the pointless navel-gazing about language that frustrates me. Language is not static, everyone has their own set of rules about spelling and pronunciation, and it’s idiotic to me to worry needlessly about it. I LOVE it when people mispronounce words, especially when it results in the purists shrieking and running from the room with their armpit hair on fire.
More often than not, the grammar police and purists are wrong anyway.
Corky the squirrel ranted at me for a couple of minutes. I accidentally walked right up upon him as he sat on the transformer dining on tidbits left by a fellow animal lover. I didn’t see him. Because I startled him, he did a flip on top of the transformer, crouched down to give me the evil eye, and then leaped up the tree a couple of feet to stare at me further. I That’s when the rant commenced. Though I don’t speak Scuirusese, the official language of squirrels, I did catch the sounds for trespass and butthead. I took a picture and then reached up toward him and he didn’t move. After a few seconds of me staying motionless in that position, he fluffed his tail up in indignation and casually went up the tree and out of sight. I’ll leave him some food offerings later today or tomorrow in penance. X
I skipped lunch today and left work. The second part of this post notwithstanding, I went to McDonald’s for french fries, often confused as barbituates due to the deliciousness of the salt and grease which coat them. As I pulled up to the pay window, a very young woman greeted me. Before I could utter a word, she said, “Oh, your earring AND glasses match your car. It’s a beautiful color!” Without pausing, I replied, “I pick a car to match each day’s earring choice.” She laughed and said, “That makes perfect sense.” I went to the park adjacent to it and watched the huge crows scampering about and cawcawing mindlessly. It reminded me of an impromptu management meeting because all the crows were squawking simultaneously. The weather was perfect for sitting in the car and munching. Oddly, NPR was playing a segment about eating disorders. When I finished, I walked back over to McDonald’s and bought a basket of fries. These weren’t for me; the murder of crows would be the recipient. I climbed on the rocks and began to toss the fries strategically near the black, winged harbingers. The birds joyously amplified their cawcawing and screeches as they began to snatch the fallen fries from the ground. Shockingly, none of them asked for a condiment packet of ketchup to accompany their snack. A woman in a nearby car watched and smiled. As I finished, she rolled down her window and motioned for me to approach her car. She handed me a bit of bun from her burger and the remaining fries from her lunch. “Let’s try something different,” I told her. I walked a few feet away from her car and piled her remnants in a small stack and walked back to my car. The five or six crows lunged over to the pile and began pecking madly and in unison at the food on the ground. It was another round of joyous cackling and squawks as they noisily devoured the unexpected second course. The woman in her car gave me the thumbs up for giving her a closer look at the crows as they dined on America’s favorite fast food.
I got teased this morning for playing my 70-minute Rocky montage. And that tickles me. Because I got up at 1:00 a.m. and decided I would do 5 minutes of push-ups every hour. I’ll leave you to speculate how many that’s turned out to be so far. This is a one-off day because I made a promise a long time ago not to overdo it. Playing Rocky music evokes muscle memory from when I was younger. I won’t always be able to do this. And I don’t expect to. But for today, it’s a nice reminder that I can. When you don’t do the things you can, It remains remarkably easy not to do them. And for the people rolling their eyes and thinking that I’m humble bragging, that’s okay too. Push-ups have evolved into an amazing anti-anxiety remedy for me. If my arms get too sore, it’s not like I’m going to need to reach up and brush my hair. It treasonously jumped ship decades ago. I don’t miss it.
If you’ve got kids, you already know how loud a murder of crows can be. And if you have a job, you’ll probably identify with the cacophony of overlapping voices allegedly communicating at high volume. The flavor of fries still coats my mouth as I write this. It was a dumb little excursion for me after work but oddly satisfying.
My tuxedo cat Güino is 15 today. He already celebrated by running out the door when I got up. He is amazingly spry for a cat his age and has always maintained his weight with unlimited food available for him. I snapped this picture yesterday afternoon as he lay in his massive cat castle structures in the main front window. The sun had warmed him so much that I thought I might be able to hear the microwave ding to let me know he was done cooking. He won’t get a cake, but he’ll get a barrage of cat juice and soft treats. Pretty much like he does every day. The life of a cat and companion.
P.S. His eye looks odd because he had been tucked into a ball before I roused him to take the picture.
I descended to the trail with a bag of surprises, hopeful one of the squirrels of the local squadron by the creek would come down from the trees. 42° struck me as wildly warm. The sunlight was diaphanous as it penetrated the fluffy clouds. As soon as I poured the surprise onto the transformer the squirrel made two heroic and timed leaps from way up into the tree onto the surface. I stepped back so it could feast. It didn’t disappoint me. The squirrel stuffed its face ferociously. In less than 2 minutes, it had consumed and/or packed its mouth with every last morsel.
Why it made me happy? I don’t know. When I last lived in Springdale, I wasn’t nice to the squirrels because they destroyed everything. I think I’ve exceeded my karma for them in the last couple of years. I leave peanuts and food out for them and if they chew things they’re not supposed to, I replace them or fix them. As I walked away, the squirrel nimbly ascended back to the treetops. I finished my break and went back to work.
Entering the convenience store, I noted several people waiting or milling around. A couple of them seemed uncomfortable. Within a second, I realized why. A woman was standing near the counter, berating the workers for some kind of misunderstanding or error regarding the gas pumps. No matter the content of her argument, all I witnessed was someone forgetting the stupidity of such behavior. Her anger possessed her. I could see it contaminating everyone witnessing it. The woman in question stomped out, hollering, “Never mind! I give up.” When I exited, I could see her angrily talking to another person at the pumps in a different vehicle. “Spread that anger infection some more, yes, please,” I said to myself in my head. I hope I remember the experience the next time I feel anger flare uncontrollably inside me. Anger seldom looks attractive on anyone.
On the short leg of my drive home, I followed behind a Jeep. It happened quickly, so I had no reaction time. The plastic cover inserted into the missing back window frame blew out. I watched in slo-mo as it flipped over a couple of times and went under my car. It seemed inevitable that it would have flipped up and hit my windshield directly. I followed the Jeep, honking my absurd horn. It slowed as if to turn left. I honked again, and the Jeep instead continued straight. As it neared the light ahead, it turned red. When the Jeep stopped, I hopped out and ran to the driver’s side. “You lost your back window back there. It didn’t damage my car, but it’s still on the road. You’re going to be a bit cold without it. Have a great day!” I gave him a thumbs-up and ran back to my car.
Because no one knows how to easily turn into my driveway, the Jeep contained ahead, and I turned in. After parking, I watched the road for a minute. The Jeep went back by in the opposite direction. The driver undoubtedly decided that the cold warranted a return trip for the plastic window insert. It made me happy to think I took a chance to let him know. I’d recommend some screws or duct tape if he’s going to put it back on.
As for Gûino, he will be 15 early next year. He’s a spry, healthy cat for his age. If he is so inclined, he can scrunch down and jump seven feet straight up. There’s no doubt about it that he shouldn’t go outside. When I moved here, and he came back to live with me, his paws didn’t go far from the door and certainly not downstairs. He’s grown familiar with the building, the pitbull who loves cats (really) on the end, and some of the residents. I stopped letting him out in the dark after a particularly scary moment a few weeks ago. But one of his joys is to scamper out the door and sniff, discover, and explore. It could easily result in a surprise or tragedy for him. There’s no denying it. But at his age, given the unlikely scenario that he’ll survive as long as I’d like him to, I stopped struggling with the overwhelming worry he would get lost, kidnapped, or fatally hurt out there. I try to monitor him. Sometimes he fools me. I have three Blink cameras to surveil him. If the worst happens to him, I will be devastated. I’ll feel immensely guilty. I temper that possible outcome against his age. To be inside all the time when I know he’s grown to love scampering outside, sometimes forcing me to chase him on the upper landing, up and down stairs, and across the parking lot. It’s a game to him.
Erika sent me a video from her Blink from yesterday. Gûino had already enjoyed his prison yard time but decided to dart out the door without written permission from me. So, to startle him into remembering he can’t do that, I chased him all the way down the building and stairs, all the way back inside my apartment. And yes, I know I was running a little bit fruity in the video accompanying this post.
I want him to have a longer life. But I’d rather him have a fuller life, even if that brings risk.
As someone who narrowly avoided precarious death a few times, it’s hard to convince me that risk is entirely real.
While I was doing dishes, Güino couldn’t resist the remains of the vegetable grilled chicken cheesy bake I made. Though he had already sampled the chicken multiple times, he was probably thinking like me: you might never know if you have another opportunity, so why not take it?
I like cooking, especially the experimental part, but I’m terrible at it.
If you look at the picture closely, you can see his tongue hanging out. That’s the cat equivalent of a man unbuttoning his pants after a good meal.
Erika snapped this picture for me. I was oblivious to the cat pre-cleaning my dishes for me.
A very subtle sign rock that I made for one of my neighbors. They have a very sweet pitbull who loves cats. Not the r&b singer; rather, the canine version. My car Güino thinks every animal is his friend, but this dog makes his fur stand on end. .
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 