Nocfloofnal (floofinition) – Animals, especially housepets, who roam, play, eat, and fight at night.

In use: “Among housepets, cats are recognized as being nocfloofnal, with videos of them raising hell while their people trying to proliferating across the net.”

The Trump Dream Segment

In the middle of my dreams was a segment featuring Donald J. Trump.

We were evacuating somewhere. The reasons for that were unclear. It was a watery place, more like a large lake or ocean than river or flood.

I was somehow involved with organizing it because, it’s my dream, right? We’re following OPLAN 1067. I don’t know if such an operations plan exists, but that’s the dream’s claim. For that, we need aircraft.

They’re being acquired. This is like the planning phase of the evacuation.

Donald J. shows up. We all get respectful, waiting to let him speak. He says, “You know what your problem is. You got too many planes.”

We’re all puzzling this out. We’re following the OPLAN. OPLANs follow painstaking processes and are based on past learning experiences. The OPLAN dictates how many planes we should have.

Although I’m not the head honcho, I’m about to point this out to Trump when the head honcho does. “We’re following OPLAN 1067. It calls for us to have sixty-seven aircraft.”

Trump then replies, “What’s an OPLAN?”

That leaves us all gaping and speechless. I answer, “OPLAN is an acronym for operational plan, a formal plan to address a problem or situation.”

Getting testy, Trump replies, “I know what an OPLAN is.” Then he turns to leave and says again, “You have too many planes.”

Then he’s gone.

Thursday’s Theme Music

I have another Seger offering. As I was checking out the sunset last night — not too red, not too many particulates in the sky — I remembered other sunsets in other places, not so much exact moments but the sense of time. Foremost was being in California, watching sunsets in Half Moon Bay. Too much thule fog kept most of our sunsets from being spectacular.

Even so, infrequently one would slip through. Occasionally, we’d encountered the perfect triad of temperature, sunset, and ocean experience to elevate it to something wonderful that I could draw on for the rest of my life.

That’s where I was last night. Out of that sense of remembrance came Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band with “Hollywood Nights” (1978). That song captures a sense of fundamental change. After such an experience, nothing is seen as the same again.

The Puking Game

We do not know the rules.

We suspect it goes something like this.

One of the housefloofs goes and pukes quietly. Their object appears to puke somewhere where it’ll take some time to notice, and not leave any clues to the puker’s identity.

We’ve found three such pukes over the last three days. “Someone puked in the living room,” my wife announces.

I check it out, like I’m doubting her report, right? No, I want to conduct forensics, clues like hairballs. But there’s nothing distinguishing about this puddle of upchucked kibble.

“I didn’t hear anything,” I say. Everyone who has an animal knows that each pet has signature sounds associated with their puking. They usually have a preferred place, too. This doesn’t fit any of our animals.

Did our animals bring in a guest floof to puke, to mess with our heads?

“I didn’t hear anything, either,” my wife said.

Of overriding concern when you have a puker is the source’s health. Is this the first sign of serious trouble or a one-time gack attack?

The second day was more concerning. One day is an incident; two days are a worrying coincidence. “Someone puked again,” my wife called out. “On my rug again. Why do they have to puke on my rug?”

“Maybe they’re sending you a message.” I checked out the vomitus. It was as undistinguishing as the first. Again, I’d heard nothing.

I looked around. The three cats were sitting there, watching, like spectators, you know?

Two of them appeared to be smirking.

Now there’s a third puke, except…

Hearing the noise, I rolled out of bed and stumble through the gray drizzle of six AM autumn light. I already guessed (because I saw Boo back in the bedroom and Papi sitting outside on the patio as I oriented myself and ordered, “Left foot, right foot, go forward,”) that it was Tucker, caught it in act.

Yes, indeed. This was a standard hairball.

Was it part of the game, or genuine illness?

Seeing me, he hurried over. “Meow?”

“I’m not feeding anyone,” I answered, guessing that’s what he asked. It was still just after six. I’d stayed up late writing, and I was going back to bed. As I climbed back between the sheets, I saw Boo, Papi, and Tucker watching me. Round one was over.

I wonder who won.

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