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Bless her shriveled little pumper, masquerading as a heart, self. My girl has gone and tried again to make herself relevant.

We been waitin’ ever so long for her to tell us what end is up. We considered it to be dangerous to make an investment, move our funds, or even to decide what to eat tomorrow, awaitin’ the WORD.

We gathered our friends in hushed conversations, all pondering when and what she would udder  speak.

The entire planet held it’s collective breath, and squeezed its ass cheeks tightly lest any air should escape.

We were frightened.

But then she opened those lips from on high, coated in Mooselini Mauve lip gloss to tell the back-ended folk of South Carolina (cream rises to the top up North), and let them know what they should do.

“Thou shalt pull the lever, x the box, or punch the circle that denotes the name of thy most blessed Newt.”

This is all because our Wasilla WhoaMAN has concluded that we need to investigate the possibly suspicious and mysterious Mr. Mittens a bit more. All cuz, well, we screwed up last time. As you remember.

“I would want this to continue — more debates, more vetting of candidates, because we know the mistake made in our country four years ago was having a candidate that was not vetted to the degree that he should have been, so that we know who his associations and his pals represented and what went into his thinking.”

Yes, you read that right. She opened her pie and spewed forth from her word garden those delightful words.

And the world farted, at last.

Don’t you feel better now?

All this time, I figured she go with Ricky P, bein’ kindred stupids ya know. (Oh woe is me, the Perryster is leaving the circus to return to work at the carnival that is called Texas again.)

And what’s more, returning to Sarah I mean,  not even a week since it’s inception, and when we thought probably no one could ever win it, our Sarah wins “Newtspah “ of the week.

We knew ya had it in ya girl.

Congrats.

Meanwhile, back in the meadow.

The feline wars continued.

You were unaware?

Oh do let me fill you in.

We have a cat (actually 4 but only one figures in this story) by the name of Spencer. He is by my account the spawn of Beelzebub himself,  satan in drag, hell-cat from the black lagoon, however you wish to say it: really, really a rotten cat!

Said pet, I use the term loosely, is around-ish 12, and frankly in the last year or so has slowed considerably, and might, in some small ways be considered a “good cat”. For instance he has learned to sit quietly upon one’s lap with only the barest pinching of his little toes to prevent them from sinking repeatedly into the flesh of your thigh.

But he does have his “moments” and one of them is the need to wait until everyone has put head to pillow and settled in for a long winter’s nap,  before he scratches at the bedroom door, announcing that it is now time for his meadow walk-about. This happens every night.

Now you might suggest that we try a few tricks: Ignore him (how long exactly does it take for hell to freeze over?), throw things at him (he ducks well) spray him with water (he’s learned the technique of scratch and run).

So I, (the Contrarian feigning sleep) rolled over, pulling myself from the transitional level of half-sleeping paradise, and hauled my butt to the front door.

As I open the door, Calvin leaps out. This is part of the “plan”. Calvin is not rude in this way and leaves this bit of dirty work to Spencer, but he is always goes out first. Now, Spence, instead of following suit,  has put toe-pad to air, and realized that it is one bitchingly cold night and he is not putting his skinny black ass  out there.

With this change of mind, he skidaddles into the kitchen and under the table, grinning not at all like the Cheshire Cat, but in an evil clownish improvisation all his own.

Oh, no. No ya don’t buddy. You got me up. You, my scrawny black and white hell-cat, are going forth to meet the zero degree.

And so I get the broom and he runs diving into the bedroom and under the bed.

So, I sit patiently in the living room, until he thinks it safe. And he comes forth, and when he sees me, he stops, and . . . makes the fatal mistake of running back into the kitchen. Whereupon, I shut the bedroom, cutting off that means of escape, and go forth with broom to do battle.

Meanwhile the Contrarian has come to help, and he blocks the kitchen door, and I chase the punk enemy into his arms. Out he goes!

As the door opens to throw him forth, the Calvinator returns with a “by God’s it’s cold enough out there to freeze off my balls, if I had any,” and disappears until morning.

It is only three minutes before Spencer commences to scratch at the door.

The Contrarian starts forth, but I end that:

“He’s stayin’ out for thirty-minutes,” I command, with more shrill tones than are necessary but I’m on the edge of my sanity and well, no one should witness that.

“Thirty-minutes?” he whines worriedly.

“Yesssss, that cat only understands pain. He’ll think twice about doing this tomorrow night,” I spit forth through clenched teeth.

“Yeah, you clearly have him under your thumb” he sneers and goes off to bed.

I settle down with a glass of wine and a copy of MLK’s “Letter from a Birmingham Jail”. Every few minutes the scratching commences  and lasts for a few minutes, followed by quiet, and listening, and then a couple of mews, and then it starts all over again. I smile, and continue to read, sipping my wine, knowing that “I’m doing it for his own good” or words to that effect.

At the thirty minute mark, I went and let the damn cat in. He crawled up and purred softly. “I feel your pain,” I whisper.

And that is how it’s done.

That Darwin guy. He was on to something. I’m sure of it now.