ThingsPondered

A story of a bachelor’s induction into cat fatherhood

Sammy’s mother had already chosen me.  Mysterious-looking in her tabby raiment, she was an alley gal who suddenly appeared at the door of the restaurant I lived above.  After she figured out how to get into my third floor rooms, the staff decided she was mine.  I named her Fritzie, after the cook.

Fortunately, I had advisors on the ways of the domestic feline, for I had never owned a cat.  As a team, we set her up with a basket for a bed, food, and toilet accommodations.  Fritzie was a sweet girl who quietly enriched my life with her presence.  Cautious presence, that is.  Apparently, she must have been mistreated by people and was wary of me approaching her.  Yet, she was the one who selected my life and, all in all, she seemed to be thriving.

Thriving, indeed.  Fritzie was swelling.  The first educated guess was – God no – worms.  A vet was able to examine her and happily eliminate that possibility.  Concurrently, the reason for Fritzie’s changes revealed itself.  She was on the nest.  Or the litter box.  In other words, my little vixen was pregnant.

At the appointed time, the litter was delivered.   As the kittens grew, they started to move around and do those “kitten things:” chasing each other, practicing their leaps.  I had no plans to keep any of the kittens, but…there was one little fellow, Sammy, attired with white boots.  I found that appealing and also comfortingly reminiscent of family legends regarding my grandfather’s cat, “Boots.”

Once, as I sat watching TV with a plastic tumbler of water at my side, Sammy leaped up and grasped the cup.  Mind you, the proportions were as comical as you or me trying to embrace the bulbous reservoir of a water tower.  Of course, he couldn’t really get a claw-hold. As I steadied the wobbling tumbler, slightly lifting it from the table in the process, Sam steadily and slowly slid down and off – just like a cartoon kitty – falling all the way to the floor.  Unfazed, he gleefully bounded off to his next adventure (and into my heart.)

A few days later, Fritzie’s brood romped about my apartment.  Now fully weaned, they used a cut- down cardboard shipping box for their quarters.  Because its sides were about eight inches high, gaining entry to the box provided a playful challenge for the kittens.  One of Sammy’s siblings took a running start and, like a high jumper, made her attempt.  She got her front paws over the sides of the cardboard barrier, intent on pulling herself up and over.  Sammy, with all the wild abandon and joy of a successful linebacker, rushed and sacked her.  They both toppled outside the box, delightedly wrestling and chortling.

The deal was clinched.  Sammy stays.

For these heartwarming recollections, many thanks go to Pete Souders, former owner of Ortlieb’s Jazzhaus in Northern Liberties for two glorious decades.

the world who you are: 

just start talking.

Failure to Conjugate Third Person Singular

                    a/k/a

        Don’t say Don’t with he

Santa Maria, Madre de Dios!  There are many languages more

complicated

(MUCH more complicated)

than English. 

We are talking PRESENT tense – also not a huge

challenge.  In English, generally we use the same exact verb (action word

for you Wal-Mart devotees) with five of the six types of people groups. 

The is action word identical for: I, you –singular, we, you-plural, and

they.  Therefore, we need only learn one other form of the verb to

complete our vocabulary.  Why, then, do you insist on declaring to the

world that you are happily locked into the lower class?  

It seems to be a badge of honor to talk like a country-western song.  I

know you are not stupid people.  You have many skills, talents, and

bodies of knowledge.  You can run rings around so many of us with your

expertise in myriads of arenas. Yet, you persist in trashing English when

the solution is SO SIMPLE.  There is even a pattern:  often all that is

required is adding an “s” or an “es” to the verb used for the five other

pronouns.

Examples:  I do, you do, He does.

Therefore, when the word “not” is part of the sentence, we have: I don’t,

you don’t, he doesn’t.

Try it.  It is easy, truly.

Why does it need to be so late on the east coast?  Can’t our fellow Americans in the Pacific Time Zone watch a game that starts at 2:00 PM their time?  I do not see obstacles to that.  If that could happen, then the east coast people will be watching starting at 5:00 PM their time – certainly an appropriate time for scarfing down all the wings, pizza, beer, chips, and so forth.  As for the Californians, they can take a turn for a few decades of “needing” (?) to eat Superbowl foods at a time they might not normally eat in the middle of their afternoon.  The Superbowl commercials will be just as funny.

The end of January/ beginning of February is cold and dark, and possibly full of bad weather conditions,  for half of the east coast at the traditional Superbowl starting time.  If party guests are drinking spirits, then they possibly have the alcohol to process before they can head home,.  Late, late, late night for adults and some children.  On a school night.  On a work night. 

It’s time for a change.