And At Keeping Things Vague

Photo of bathroom in darkness, as seen by leaping pussycats whose cameras have a flash.

Last night, an unusual noise woke Pete from a sound sleep. He sat up in a panic, muttering, “What? What?” Then his head cleared and he realized one of the cats had flushed the toilet. We suspect Topaz, whom we often spy figuring out how some contraption contrapts – or maybe the giant kitten made a sloppy leap for the window sill from the toilet tank.

This morning, I’d taken the day of from work to transplant lettuces and tomatoes, to get some rest and bask in the sunshine. During my drive to physical therapy at 7:15 a.m, Matt Pinfield played Guns N’ Roses’ Used To Love Her. I said, “Fuck you, Matt,” and shut off the radio. Just after 9, Pete and I drove to the eye doctor’s office in our home town and Matt played Under My Thumb. I said, “Fuck you, Matt, we get it. You hate women. Women get the message.” When he lived here, I used to meet Matt Pinfield in that grocery store four blocks from my current house. If I ever see him there again, I will personally fling the first cream pie.

My grandparents had a cat that potty-trained himself. His name was Gato, and he was a genius. He could open doors with his paws. One day, my grandfather opened the bathroom door and found Gato reading the paper and smoking a Lucky. I’m kidding, of course. Gato was doing a crossword.

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