Our Santa Fe News Desk reports on the status of our newest cat friend:
Bubbahotep has a lot of games, all of them annoying, but his worst is running into the bedroom every time the door opens, sticking his fists into Leon the Pigeon’s cage, and trying to eat him, despite Leon’s being twice his size. We’ve spoken to him time and again, but he persists. He’s hopeless. This prompted a name change to Bubbahopeless.
That’s…a big pigeon. And speaking of pigeons:
Yesterday [the wife] and I bought a hydrid. She drives two hours a day, in a minivan, and in view of gas prices, it was an easy decision economically and environmentally. Roman, the salesman, told me they were hiring and that I should apply. The way I carried myself, he said. How easily I struck up a rapport. My reflex was to shrug it off, but now that I’ve had time to think about it, I’m not so sure. Before I worked the two animal hospital reception desks, I thought I would never be able to work with the public. I thought I’d be too shy. You’re probably the only person who wouldn’t laugh at that, although I forgive you if you do. But I was surprised to find out in those jobs that I wasn’t shy, not any more. I could sell cars. I could ask people how I could help them, and call them “folks.” The shop would teach me about cars and what the steps are of selling. All it would call for on my part would be a firm handshake and not smelling bad, which I have covered. I know, it’s ridiculous. I would never in a million years have thought of myself as a car salesman. How could I look at myself in the mirror without laughing? Imagine all the cuts I’d get shaving. But really, at probably double what I’m making now, even in my first year, and with their busy season just starting, what the fuck? I’ve got nothing to lose. If I don’t like it, reception jobs are always there. And I’ll have taken a chance, made a leap, that I know I’ll be sorry later if I don’t. I’ll have acted like a man, and you of all people know how satisfying that is. So I filled out the application Roman gave me. I have an appointment to stop by tomorrow and introduce myself to the manager, who is of course named Don. Only bosses are named Don. When in real life have you ever known anyone named Don?
As an Italian woman in New Jersey, I was assigned an Uncle Don. Later, it turned out his name was Dante but I didn’t know that until well after a tractor trailer ran him over very well in his Italian sports car on the far-from-Italian-made Routes 1 & 130 Interchange. Ah, the circle of life. In this case, it was replaced by a series of picturesque bridges and exit ramps.
And speaking of well-traveled cats, Katrina-survivor Tom and his human Jazz entered a contest at the Tribeca Film Festival site and need our help. Rate the effective little film five stars; handsome Tom’s got fame written all over him.