Kitten love

There is something inexpressibly sweet and luminous about waking up surrounded by purring kittens.  This was the enviable position in which I found myself this morning. All my little guys had gathered to affiliate with the primate.  Pinky was on my pillow, nosing me.  Hohner was putting his little paw on my beard, and Dingus was at my shoulder. All were just buzzing away like little furry apiaries. It was a real Kodak moment, darkened only by the fact that I REALLY had to get up and empty my bladder.  But after some pets and strokes  and more  purrs and exchanges of mammalian greetings, the trio was off of me and off of the bed altogether, in search of new and more exciting matters–like chasing  a particularly interesting tail, or stalking the odd bit of string on the floor.

Thank you Silky, for producing such a fine batch of youngsters.  And thank you God, for inventing cats.

A Slight case of Auto-eroticism

God help me, I’m falling in love with a car–a van, really, a Mazda MPV.  I didn’t intend to, really.  It just sort of happened.  I saw this thing parked on the strip near my flea market stand and  my first thought was “Wow, that looks good,”  followed by “But I could never afford it.”  It looked almost new and I was sure it had at least a five-figure price tag on it, way out of my valley trash league.  But I got closer and eyeballed it–it was a ’91, and the asking price was $2495.  Gulp.  Now this was still more than what I paid for my present car (Roger the Dodge, a 1988 Dodge Colt Vista) AND my wife’s car (Streak, a 1987 Subie wagon) put together.  But, I thought, if the guy would take my vehicle in trade and finance it. . . the wheels started turning, so to speak.

Now I don’t really NEED a new car.  My practice for the last few years has been to drive a car until it pukes, then scramble around and replace it with whatever I can get for around a grand.  And Roger is running fine, never mind that he would give Ralph Nader a heart attack, being sort of a deathtrap.  The front seat mounting bolts are, well, compromised, so that the whole seat would probably come off in a collision and crush me. The seatbelt doesn’t retract properly, is probably more cosmetic than functional. The windshield has half a dozen cracks and stars, which reduce visibility.  One of the run-signal indicators does not work; neither does the rear-window washer.  And to start up the heater fan, you have to alligator-clip two bare wires together–and that clip gets HOT after a few minutes. And it leaks a quart of oil every tank of gas, which isn’t real great for the environment. But it DOES run.

But the Mazda has four-wheel drive–a must, as far as I am concerned–and automatic transmission.  I have driven sticks for the last forty years, but lately, shifting for myself is taking more and more of a toll on my bad shoulder and knee and ankle.  I probably would not hurt so much so often with a slushbox.  And the van sits a lot higher thanRoger, which would make for better visibility, and it is a lot roomier, which means I could stock more merchandise in it.  And it looks sooo good. . . . .

This just in–I talked to my business consultant at Wells Fargo–I could get a business loan for the Mazda.  But I need to consult with my partner, and decide for sure if I even for real want the thing.  I guess the next step is to call the owner and arrange a test-drive.

Stay tuned for more news of my latest driving ambition.

More news of the cats at Felony Flats

First, some backstory for new readers. Felony Flats is the name that locals have given to the strip of cabins and storage units where I reside and run a flea-market stand during the summer.(It is so-named because of the number of neer-do-wells and violent drunks and felons who live there.  The landlord is a great guy, a responsible family man and former Iditarod musher, but the laws here favor  tenants–even  deadbeats and drunks and dopers.  Still, the landlord has done a great job of weeding out the worst elements, even going to court at his own expense to do so.  But I digress.)  Winter, it serves as a base for my trips to gun shows and holiday bazaars.

I share a 10×12 cabin with Silky, the momcat, and her three male kittens–Dingus, Pinky, and Hohner.  I have no use for most people but I do have a soft spot for critters. 

There are a few feral cats down by my stand, like Smoky and Spooky (they are Silky’s sisters–some rotten so and so dumped them off at the flats last summer), and I put out food and water for them.  I haven’t seen Smoky for weeks–word is, she has a litter of kittens stashed somewhere–but Spooky still  comes round regularly. 

The other day, I found out where the expression “the fur flies” came from.  Marmalade–this huge fluffy orange cat–and Blackie–a skinny black cat–were into it, and the fur was literally flying. By the time the two combatants had pooped out, there were scraps of fur of both colors here and there over a ten square-yard area.  The fur was flying, indeed.

 I keep food and water out on the porch of my cabin for  itinerant felines.  The word has gotten out and various strays come by for a snack–some stay long enough to get a name.  Like Bigfoot, a polydactyl tabby  who came around last winter.  And Springfield, a big furry guy who is sort of silvery gray, but is so wild he won’t let me pet him.  And Boris, a big multi-colored furrball who not only let me pet him, but head-butted me the first time we met. Then there is Frankie, a sweet cross-eyed, blue-eyed Siamese mix–recently, she has taken to poking her head into the cabin.  Now Silky is VERY territorial, but for some reason, she has not driven off Frankie.  As a rule, she goes postal when other cats even come onto the porch.

This morning, Frankie came around, and I left the cabin door open–it wasn’t too cold.  And she came in and had some water.  Then she moseyed around the cabin, poking  her little nose here and there. At one point,  Hohner arched his back but didn’t hiss, and Silky actaully strolled out of the cabin for a few minutes, leaving me and Frankie alone with the  kids.  Frankie even ate some of the special chow I put down for the cabin cats–canned food mixed with kibble.  Finally, it was getting time for me to go, and the cabin cats seemed to be getting  a tad anxious, so I asked Frankie to leave.

She was cool about it. 

What’s more, she seems to be great with kittens.  I don’t know what will happen next. 

I do know that the more time I spend around these critters, the better I like them, which is more than I can say for most of the domesticated primate denizens of the flats.  Actually, most people, period.  I am an equal opportunity curmudgeon.

Solving this jigsaw puzzle and posting about this sweepstakes for Big Red makes me eligible for free Xanga Premium for life…