Bye Bye, Pie!

In which June further proves it is good she did not have kids

Yesterday was a stupid day.

First, I got up and played with Roger for awhile, while the dogs were outside. I was throwing his mouse down the hall and suddenly remembered how Henry used to fetch his pink mice for me and got sad. I miss Henry.

Then after that depressing realization, I got to work and had the kind of day where you never look up because you are so busy. Just as soon as I'd feel like maybe I had a handle on my work, more would come, like Lucy at the chocolate factory. Soon I was eating pages. Which is not as fun as eating candy.

At any rate, it was 5:00 before I knew it, but by that time I had a screeching, screaming, mincing Richard Simmons migraine. I have no idea what Richard Simmons migraine is, but once I said screech and scream and mince I thought of him. It was an annoying migraine and it kind of had a balding perm.

So me and my short-shorts migraine left right at 5:00, even though I could have easily stayed several more hours to work. As soon as I got to the privacy of my car, I shot my migraine drug up my nose, which yes, I am SUPPOSED to do. It's not like I took a pill and snorted it.

I remembered that, ironically, I had to go to Target to pick up the medication I take every day to keep migraines at bay, and although my head currently was in a vise, that stuff really does work pretty well. The drugs I shoot up my nose? I used to take nine a month, and now I take maybe one or two. Which is good because the special shoot-it-up-your-nose-when-you-have-a-migraine meds cost about $11,000 apiece.

At any rate, I get over to the Target, there, and it is packed. Naturally everyone in the world was stampeding over there to fill their prescriptions or get their Renuzit or whatever right after work.

"Hi, I'm here to pick up a call-in prescription. Gardens."

"Oh, yes, June," said the pharmacy tech. It occurred to me that the fact she knows my first name is not a good sign. I am there 70 times a month. There is the shoot-up-the-nose stuff, the take-it-every-day stuff, the prescription Vitamin D because the take-it-every-day stuff depletes my Vitamin D, my prescription iron because you know you want to hear all about my girl problems, and so forth. I am 79 years old.

But there was a problem. Of course. Of course there was a problem. When you have Richard Simmons jumping in your head and dealing a meal, and all you really want to do is lie down with a cold compress and maybe some morphine, there has to be a problem with the PRESCRIPTION YOU GET EVERY SINGLE MONTH.

Do you remember me talking about my pharmacy delivery service? It's part of my insurance and they talked me into getting my meds delivered from now on because it's somehow cheaper, but that stuff isn't gonna be here for awhile. However, the part where I ORDERED it made me unable to get my everyday meds. Which trust me, are no fun and it's not like I can go sell them on the street. Say, I got a pocket full of anti-migraine-getting meds! Elvis would envy my supply!

Because they know me intimately there, they offered to call my insurance for me, so I wandered around Target, wanting to alternately faint and barf from my migraine. I talked myself out of buying Rob Lowe's autobiography but I caved at a new welcome mat. It has birds on it.

Finally I took my weary head back to the pharmacy, but I could see the poor girl still on the phone. I sat on the benches only old people sit on, and this beleaguered woman in scrubs came up with her kid.

Now, I do not know from kids. He was somewhere between 18 months and 10 years old. And as he waited for what were undoubtedly mom's gin shots in a pill, he began bellowing.

Bellowing.

Like, it was a combination of yodeling, a Gregorian chant, and some kind of Native American rain dance or something. "Heyyyyyyy, yoooooooooo, heyyyyyyyy, yooooooooo" and he VIBRATED his voice while he did it.

"Heyyyyyy, yoooooooo, heyyyyyy, yooooooo."

In the meantime, his mom just stared into space, not even noticing her berserk child was speaking to the Bison spirit or whatever the hell he was doing. And did I mention my head sort of hurt?

"Heyyyyyy, yoooooooo, hey-y-y-y-y-y-y-y, yoooooooooooo..."

Some woman with a manical grin came around the corner. "I knew that was Andrew! I heard his singing all the way over in the Kleenex aisle!"

Okay, lady, whoever you are, do not ENCOURAGE old Sun-Ra to continue to possess this child. The mom sort of woke from her daze and said, "Oh, hi, Shelby. Yes, you know he likes to sing."

"Heyyyyy, yoooooooo, heyyyyyy, yooo-ooo-ooooo."

I was going to burst an artery. Could they not SEE the woman holding her HEAD not four feet away? Did it not OCCUR to them that people at a pharmacy might not be feeling up to snuff and therefore may be not in the mood for another chorus of heyyy yooo? I just knew Shelby was gonna go back in the store and get Andrew a cowbell or something, and that would be when you'd read in the paper about a middle-aged woman stabbing everyone with barbecue forks at the Target.

"Heyyyy, yoooooo, heyyyyy, yooooo..."

The pharmacist gave the woman her prescription moonshine and earplugs, but before they left, do you know what she said? DO YOU KNOW? DO YOU!?!?!?!?

"You gonna sing a song for Mr. Joe, our pharmacist?"

"MOTHER OF GOD, NOOOOOOOO!" I was screaming on the inside. Fortunately for us all, Andrew got performance anxiety and clammed right up.

Without looking up or remotely encouraging either mother or child, Mr. Joe said, "That'll be $8.50."

Anyway. By the time they straightened out my med sitch my migraine had cleared up, and I came home and took the dogs for a walk and got greeted by two little girls who reminded me so much of my Pal From Ma and me when we were tots that I nearly died.

"Can I pet your dog?" asked the one in all pink with the pink polka dot headband. She had 8,000 questions about my dog, and the one in blues and greens kind of held back. "I like TallUUlah," said the pink one.

"Which one do you like?" I asked the less fussy-dressed girl, who was somewhere between 18 months and 10 years old. "Hmmm, I don't know," she said. "Why is that one so scared?" she pointed at Edsel, who had wound his leash around me 60 times and was cowering at the thought of a child touching him.

Anyway, talking to them got the heyy yooo out of my head and cheered me right up, if not so much Edsel.

I wonder if Edsel would like Andrew to sing him a song?

Bridge lifter and a burrito kitty

Last night I got home from work to find this:

oh! it five o'clock alreadys? rodgder just...trying catch snowflakes. or being supriize. yes. rodgder practice suprise face.

He had rolled himself up in the blanket I had sloppily left on the couch. Hey, I live alone, who's gonna notice? Except everyone on the Internet.

i a burrito.

In other cute kitten news, and then I promise I will talk about something else, but COME ON. Look at him. Anyway, in other cute kitten news, you know how the dogs like to play and almost murder each other every night.

They were doing that last night, and the way it usually begins is Edsel bites one of Lu's back legs to get her riled up.

I tried to photograph this event, but they move kind of fast.

Anyway, Roger was on top of the couch watching Edsel pull pull pull Lu's back leg, and Lu would HRRRR and show her teefs, and then they would roll all over the floor and make "Ima kill you" noises.

I worried this would scare Roger, who did look a little...taken aback. But when things quieted down and Lu was sitting on the couch? Roger carefully crept over there and bit Tallulah on the leg.

I'm sure it would have incited a bit dramatic throwdown if Tallulah had even noticed it.

But that is not why I gathered you all here today. Today we are gonna pretend we're rich.

I mean, maybe you ARE rich. Maybe you are Barry Gibb reading this, with your 13 bathrooms. I know it is sad that I know how many bathrooms Barry Gibb has, and yet I am a real editor now and cannot ever remember what a gerund is. So okay, if you're rich already you can play too.

If you were rich and could have any job you wanted, what would it be? I mean, your first instinct might be, I would not work at all. I'd sit around on my itchy hind parts (if you did not read yesterday's comments you missed how MANY in-need-of-a-cream readers I have) and do nothing.

Perhaps you would want to just stay home and kiss kittens all day. But maybe that would get boring, or maybe there is a rule that everyone has to work at something, but it doesn't matter what because money is no object.

Now for me? When I lived in Seattle, for awhile I lived in this neighborhood called Fremont, and they had a lovely bridge there. Sometimes when  you were running late, you'd have to wait for them to LIFT the dang bridge so a big boat could pass.

Here is the bridge I was talking about. I adore the Internet. Anyway, do you see those blue columns there? A man sat up in the far one, all day, and his job was to lift the bridge when it was needed.

That's it! He sat up there alone all day, reading his book or whatever, till HOOOOONK! a boat would say Hi, I need to come through now.

So that would be my job. I later was told you need an engineering degree to be that guy, which ticks me off. Is there anything I could get less than an engineering degree?

++++++++++++++

Roger just walked across the keyboard. Apparently he was nonplussed. Or extra plussed.

So maybe Mr. Fancy Engineer does NOT get to read a book all day in his tower. But if you DID get to, that would be my dream job.

My old boss in Seattle, who was all high-pressure fancy suit corporate lingo boss, said he'd like the job of walking around emptying the parking meters. He said it just looked so peaceful.

I know of one guy who quit everything to be a mushroom farmer, because he was sick of the rat race and all that, and you know what? Mushroom farming is apparently really stressful. You have to be all just so with the soil and everything, which kills me because how many times have you had mushrooms grow places you totally did not want them to? Yet you have to be all PRECISE to really grow them on purpose? Who knew?

Okay, so what would you do? Do tell.

Itch, itch. The itch is back.

Last night I was enjoying the overcast spring night that is the South in May. I was walking the hounds, as I am wont to do. The Hounds of Bastardville. Old Digger and Dugger, there, for all your grave extermination needs.

Guess who is still irritated.

Anyway, there we were. It was lovely and cool; it had rained all afternoon but now it wasn't, the sun was beginning to set, I could hear the neighbors clearing their dinner plates, all the flowers were in bloom...

And all of a sudden m'arse itched so bad I wanted to die.

It wasn't really my ARSE so much as technically my tailbone. It was like a feather was trying to poke out of there, like I was that poor girl from The Black Swan. Did you ever have an itch that was so bad it actually kind of hurt? That is what was going on with my hind end, over there, half a mile from my house.

And did every nighbor on planet Earth have to be out?

"Heyyy, Tallulah! Nice to see ya, girl!"

"Hiiiii, Ethel! Hiiii, Lalula!"

"Are they walkin' you or are you walkin' them?" Didn't one of you say that is your peeve? People say that to me all the time but it does not bug me.

"Are they twins?" People also ask me this all the time, and that is really an asinine question, forgive the pun. First of all, my dogs are the same color, but they don't look that much alike. Second, dogs don't COME as twins.

Are they twins.

So there was everyone, you know, IN THE WORLD and I got what feels like a million brand-new mosquito bites right where the good Lord split me. I waved at people, then kind of pretended my lower back was sore. I put my hand back there and tried to scratch that way.

Yeah, no. I had on my trench coat, and it was not getting to the itch to do that. So then I pretended my lower-back pain was REALLY GETTIN' to me, and I even did a back-and-forth twist, in case anyone was studying my every move, then I gave my moneymaker a good shove with my fist.

Still. With the ITCH!

"Hey! Those twin dogs walkin' you? Heh-heh!"

Those beasts have never had a brisker walk. When we were near my house, I RIPPED open my coat, and SHOVED my hand down the back of my pants and scritch scritch scritched till I dug to China. I don't even care what the neighborhood association is saying about me.

I can just see the next newsletter. "Just a friendly reminder to put your recycle bins back on Tuesdays, and please, no scratching your ass on our neighborhood streets."

As usual, I remain Grace Kelly and you, t0o, can come to my etiquette classes.

And now here are some obligatory blurry Roger shots.

I do not know why other people take pictures with their iPhones and they do not look like the viewer has cataracts. Anyway, here is Roger, who I keep wanting to call Henry, reacting to my hand moving across the floor.

Do you want to know what's an excellent idea? Teaching a cat to play with hands. Oh, it's cute now when he weighs an ounce, but when he's an adult 16-pound cat who attacks your hand? Delightful.

rodger get hand. not scare!

why hand up ther now? maybee scare a littel.

rogdger sturleeng done wif your dum hand gayme.

we cudul insted.

I guess that kind of SCRATCHES THE SURFACE of what's going down in my life. The end.

Good heavens, I'm sexy.

June has to dash. But not to Dash, that the Kardashians own

I worked late last night and then I went out, rocking out with my O'Doul's out, and now I gots no time to blog.

I will give you an obligatory blurry Roger picture.

I think it's good I did not replace these curtains yet. Although how could you know you are looking at him standing between the couch and curtains? As blurry as this photo is, I could have superimposed him on the pictures from my fibroid removal.

Oh! And one more thing. I can never shut up. Remember last week, when my cousin was so enraged that that snooty boutique called her pants size "oversize"? Last night on her nursing shift, a patient asked her when she was due.

....hunh.

So we're thinking maybe her whole healthy body image has to go. She said, "Well, I wear scrubs, and I keep a lot of stuff in the pockets, so they're not flattering."

"What kind of stuff? Bacon?" I asked supportively.

Perhaps we could have a family diet competition, although getting into a diet competition with someone 12 years younger than me is probably a bad idea.

Okay REALLY GOING.

qurtanns shrdded. mowse torterd. job here dun.

RIP. Not so much.

My weekend? Pretty good, other than when the dogs dug up my dead cat. Yours?

I KNOW. How ludicrous is my life? How ludicrous is poor Frannie's death? He never did like those dogs. Guess who got the last laugh in THAT relationship.

When Francis died on Friday, I had to come home and become June Gardens, Grave Digger. And I do not know if you've ever dug a hole like that, but MAN is that hard. I mean, I dig holes all the time. I'm always out there in my garden. But a BIG hole?

And apparently the site I chose was brought to me by Alex Haley. Because every three inches there was another ding-dang root. I had to PLY stupid roots out with my shovel, or cut them out with my 1942 clippers. I was sweating like Meat Loaf by the time I was done.

You know when you go to join a gym, and they give you a tour, and they're all, here's the spinning room and here's the weight room? They should have, "Out back, here, is the pet grave digging area. We add new roots every week!"

I wanted to put Francis near his angry chair, only, you know, outside the house. My mistake was to put him on the INSIDE of the fence, where the dogs were, and not outside. Because yesterday when I ventured into the back yard, and saw the dirt thrown hither and yon, and SAW POOR FRANCIS...

Well. It was traumatic.

They didn't drag him around the yard, thank heavens. That archeological team just found him and reported the results to National Geographic or whatever. And do you know I tried to elicit Edsel's help with that hole in the first place? He had been standing there with his mouth gaping, watching me, and I actually got down on all fours and dug like a dog, and said, "Come on, Edsel! Help me dig a hole!"

But Edsel kind of whined and placed one delicate paw in the dirt, then said, "Eds just got clawns clip at day care. Not wish to dirtee."

Oh, but when digging the hole was on his OWN time! SURE! Then he could mess those precious "clawns" up.

I am irritated with the dogs right now. Can you tell?

So anyway, I called Marvin. Have you ever noticed the only times I call Marvin are to say things like there's a scorpion under the corner cabinet, or Tallulah's missing, or my dead cat has been dug up? Who probably enjoys my number flashing on his screen?

So I tell him this lovely tale and I say, "I really don't think I can bear to, you know, excavate Fran and move him to a new place. Can you come do it? I'll dig the hole. I just need someone to move him."

"I'll come dig the new hole," said Marvin. "Geez, how long has he been in there, again?"

"He died on Friday," I said, "and on the third day, he rose again."

We toyed with the idea that maybe Fran was trying to rise from the grave because he was pissed off about the kitten, and we discussed how the dogs managed to move that giant, heavy St. Francis statue I had put over the cat, and anyway, in due time Marvin came over and did the deed. And he got to meet Roger Sterling, whose obligatory blurry photo I will add now:

Here he is pouncing on my robe tie. Do you enjoy my cowboy robe?

Anyway, Marvin buried Franics--again--around the corner, so really Fran is even closer to his angry chair than he was before. He inexplicably put a giant flat weight on top of the site, which is a lovely tribute that makes no sense. I guess he really was worried Francis was doing the kicking of the soil.

So that's the dirt. Bah.

Sigh.

Yeah, so...

I never said I was not berserk.

why lu gardin' another kidden? this gonna happen all lu's life? wat you mean, yess?

plees to not choowk new kidden. bersserk laydee.

This is Roger Sterling. I know. Shut up. I spent all last night grinning at him like an idiot. Sue me.

And yes, I am still getting the other kitten when I go to my hometown next month. Did I already say I know and shut up? I was out of cats, okay? When you run out of toothpaste, you get more toothpaste.

rodger sterleng not toofpayst.

Wreaking havoc at the Rainbow Bridge

Thank you all for writing me about Francis. My Aunt Kathy called me, sobbing, because she read all the comments you left and she thought it was so nice how you all gathered around and offered support. Plus also, my Aunt Kathy is a very cry-y person. Still.

She liked the person who sent me the note about the Fragile Circle:

We who choose to surround ourselves with lives even more temporary than our own live within a fragile circle, easily and often breached. Unable to accept its awful gaps we still would live no other way. We cherish memory as the only certain immortality, never fully understanding the necessary plan. - Irving Townsend

The story is, Francis was pretty sick, and although the doctor had diagnosed that irritable bowel, there was a chance it could be something worse. I was thinking he was getting better, but the ironic thing is, when cats have lymphoma, Prednisone is the drug you give to keep it at bay for awhile. That's what he was taking for his irritable bowel.

But lately he had been...screaming occasionally. And it was awful. The night before his ultrasound, which was ordered because he had lost 5 lbs and the vet didn't like what she could finally feel in his big tummy, he screamed all night.

Oh, it was dreadful. If I held him, he'd be quiet for awhile but then it would start again. I knew I could not drag him through an ultrasound, and if it were NOT cancer, deal with "Let's try this drug to see if it makes him feel better." He was in horrid pain.

So I had to take him to the vet to put him to sleep. My vet who makes housecalls was gone. And for the first time in his ding-dang life, he went willingly. He sat on my lap calmly till it was time.

Here was the last picture I took of Fran, at the vet.  Neither one of us look particularly thrilled.

Here's the very first picture I ever took of him, the night I found him hanging upside-down on a vine on the carport behind our LA apartment.

Marvin and I had to take turns bottle feeding him and wearing mock turtlenecks. I had never raised a kitten that small, and as you can see I did a marvelous job of ensuring he was emotionally adjusted and thank God I never had kids.

Anyway, when the vet came in, and he was so calm that the vet, who had met him the few awful times I had taken him in, said, "Is that FRANCIS?" I mean, he really was remarkably good.

They put a mask thing over his crate to sedate him. As he fell asleep, I told him he'd always been a good cat in his own way, and that I would never forget him, and to please say hi to Mr. Horkheimer for me.

He adored Horkie. I mean, who didn't? But Francis was in awe of him.

So he went peacefully. I was petting him the whole time. And after, the vet said, "I do feel a mass in his stomach. That kind of thing is usually cancer."

Sucks.

I think after Hork was gone, Fran was never the same. So if cats get to see each other after death, I am glad they are together again.

I'll miss Fran and his ludicrous self.

Faithful Reader Letha said Francis is wreaking havoc at the Rainbow Bridge. That was my favorite line of all the kind words I have gotten today (and from everyone who met him, pretty much 100% of the comments were, "Although I still bear a scar from Francis...").

Do you know that Rainbow Bridge poem? It's about dead pets and always makes me cry and I refuse to put it up here and cry. But it talks about how your pet is in some field feeling great in the afterlife, and waiting for you to die--which Fran was always waiting for me to die--and one day there you are. They perk up, and come running toward you.

Then I forget. Either they were already on the Rainbow Bridge, or you two cross the Rainbow Bridge together, or you both go to a gay pride parade over a bridge and see a bunch of rainbows. Something happens with a bridge and a rainbow.

But I love the idea of people dying all day today, and trying to rush across the field or the rainbow or whatever the hell and they're all, "ACK! I tried to get to Fluffy and this huge mean black-and-white cat wouldn't let me pass!" "I ran to Izzy, my iguana, and this CAT picked Izzy up and flipped him about and Izzy's tail broke clean off! It was horrid."

Go, Letha. Good theory.

Eff your brigggge.

Francis Carport

August 30, 1997-May 13, 2011.

Maybe my life is TOO MUCH about the pets. You think? (aka And that's the song of my petttts)

I'm writing this Thursday night, because I have to get up early Friday to take Francis for an ultrasound. Maybe he'll lie on his back and we'll hold paws like couples do on Lifetime when the woman is pregnant. Do you think?

The thing is, last time the vet was here she did not like what she felt when she was feeling up Francis. Had Francis actually been AWAKE, she'd have been feeling a shiv. Nevertheless, he has to take a tranquilizer tonight AND tomorrow, and that's just to get him in the carrier, then he gets completely knocked out for the ultrasound.

The vet at the cat ultrasound place (there's a business. "You know what I think I'll do? I think I'll open me a cat ultrasound business. There aren't enough of THOSE about!") was giving me directions, and she told me the place was right next to a cemetery. "Oh, good. They can just dump you there tomorrow night when my cat slashes you to ribbons," I said to her.

Thank heavens she had a sense of humor and laughed at that. The other day my home-delivery pharmacy place called me (yes) and asked if I wanted childproof or easy-to-remove pill caps. "Easy-removal bottles," I told the woman. "I can't STAND my kids."

Crickets. Not ONE LAUGH out of that phone operator. Those pharmeceutical-delivery operators are a tough crowd.

The point of my story is this. Sometimes I feel like my WHOLE LIFE is about these pets.

For example, I was just finishing up work today when my cell phone rang. Fortunately my cell does not ring at work a lot, because I do not want to be the hard-working editor whose phone goes

 

ninety times a day.

It was the ultrasound place, and we discussed Francis, and his delightful personality, and how much this charming procedure will cost (800 million dollars), and whether a priest should be called when they inevitably find Beelzebub in there, and can the vet trim Fran's considerable claws when he's passed out cold (yes), and anyway I ended up not leaving work until about 5:15 because I was at my desk discussing that dumb cat.

Then I had to to get the dogs from day care, where they were all relieved to see Tallulah again, and with the ridiculous beasts in tow, we schlepped out to my regular vet's house to get Francis's tranquilizer. (When I say "regular vet" I do not mean my vet poops every day. I mean Francis has his vet who works from home and makes house calls, then my dogs have their normal, we-go-to-a-building-because-we-are-relatively-adjusted vet.)

My vet lives near the woods, so even though they played nine hours, the dogs were HANGIN' their heads out the window, whine whine whining about whatever they were sniffing out there, and also I swear to you (SWEAR) I saw geese and BABY DUCKS with them and I would love to know THAT story, and anyway, after all that we got the drugs and came home.

I fed everybody and went to the bank to deposit my first paycheck, thank GOD, and I was just finally headed home when I remembered I had poured the last of the dog food tonight so I had to get more.

Sigh.

I have to buy dog food for Tallulah, and I get this corn-free-wheat-free-fun-free stuff the trainer said to get, and then Edsel gets puppy food because he is 10 months old, and you know Talu chomps her food as quickly as possible and eats as much cheap Puppy Beneful as she can galumph down before I notice every day.

I bought the biggest bags they had, because the more you buy the cheaper it is, and could I have looked more ludicrous balancing those huge bags myself? There must have been 86 Southern gentlemen asking, "Ma'am, do you need hep with them bags?" But I know I can carry those bags so I always say no. It is a point of pride. Nevertheless, I totally look like that guy from Sesame Street who sings, "Tennn chocolate layer cakes!" and then falls down the steps.

 

Oh my shattered ARSE. I love YouTube. I never thought I would actually see that again in my life.

Now after I've written this I have to go out to the shed, get the cat carrier, drug Francis, drug him in the morning, and attempt to live through putting him in a crate. By myself. You may never hear from me again.

It is 8 p.m. as I write this. I just ate dinner. Also, I am single now. Aren't I supposed to be tripping the light fantastic and going out with someone different every night like Uncle Bill? I do not mean I wish to date my own Uncle Bill, although hey, Uncle Bill. How are you? You are a perfectly lovely person. I am sorry I do not wish to date you.

And I didn't even GET to see my satellite kitties today. I mean, this must have been how Tom Bradford felt before he met Abby. And you know what that was? Was another of my current references. As opposed to those current baker on the stairs/Uncle Bill references.

Oh, and for those of you on Team Francis--you odd, odd misguided group of "Kim Jong Il is misunderstood" people--the news may not be good. He may have lymphoma. But the thing is, he may not. He may have other things that are treatable. That is why we need to do the ultrasound. By eating the deer and bunny and other cute things, he has lost weight, and she was finally able to really feel around in his evil guts and that is why we are doing this now.

Poor Frannie. Why do bad things happen to good cats?? Oh, I tried to say that with a straight face but I just couldn't.

I will pick him up at the end of the day and I think they'll know something then. Mostly what they'll know is the blood type of whatever technician attempted to get him out of the crate.

Satellite of Love

So I went to the Office Depot, there, to get more batteries, because Edsel ate the remote control and he chewed up the batteries, as he is a GIANT ASS, and I was hoping new batteries would be all that was needed to fix the remote, because I really did not want to have to go back to 1977 when you had to GET UP and CROSS THE ROOM to change channels and I wonder if this sentence could get any longer.

Remember having to get up and change the channel? Granted, there were only three channels from which to choose, but if you were hatin' Love, American Style and wanted to switch over to Room 222 you had to haul your seven-year-old self up and put that giant knob in your hand, so to speak, and CLUNK, CLUNK, CLUNK, change it over.

God, we had it rough. I was not allowed to watch Love, American Style, so I can tell you I would not have gotten up to change the channel had it been on and no one was catching me watching it. Oh, the forbidden fruit of Love, American Style.

However, I seem to have digressed.

I bought the AAA batteries that my now-chewy remote requires, and I was just getting ready to head home, slip the batteries in and beat the dog with the remote when...

I saw kitties.

I know. I have, like, kitty-dar. But there were four cats RIGHT THERE on the side of Office Depot.

You can imagine how quickly I shot over there.

Here is Mousepad, the mom. Isn't she beautiful? She was very curious about why I was over there taking pictures of her and her cattens. But she did not run away in terror.

See the black one? That's Inkjet. The gray-and-white kitty in front, who rubbed on his mom a lot, is Sharpie.

Sharpie was the friendliest cat, and he came this close to me. I KNOW he was considering letting me pet him, but decided I was too big of a nutbar. Or maybe he knew I'd swoop him up and put him in my car. Whichev.

There was one more catten who refused to come close at all, and that was Scanner. Do you enjoy my Office Depot names? Who loves herself?

So today I...happened to go back to Office Depot and lo and behold, there they are again.

Today Scanner came over too!

I can't imagine what made Scanner and Mousepad come a-runnin', because it's not like I brought any cat treats with me or anything. Nor was I jiggling the bag. Nope.

But guess what. They didn't even WANT the treat. I looked around the corner, and THREE PEOPLE are already feeding them!

Clearly I am not the only Gladys Kravitz of cats.

And I know there are rescue organizations that I can call and I even have those humane traps I could use. But you know what? I don't want them to be in some cage somewhere. I don't want them separated, either. They were constantly butting heads, and wrapping their tails around each other. I have never seen a cat family that was so affectionate. Who am I to "rescue" them from that? They have a ton of woods back there, and yes, they will probably not live long. I say better that than languishing in a shelter, apart, for who knows how long.

But that does not mean I'm not gonna go visit them. They are my new satellite kitties.

I think I will be loading up on a lot of the office supplies.