Floofguard

Floofguard (floofinition) – 1. Animal(s) responsible for the safety, security, and well-being of other animals.

In use: “The old Tom had been rescued after years of living on the streets, but soon after being rescued, he became a floofguard for the new kittens and puppies brought into the animal shelter, comforting them with his big, scarred body.”

2. Person who keeps watch over animals.

In use: “Shepherds were one of humanity’s earliest established floofguards, a heritage that has spread through the net and is carried on by foster families and sanctuaries looking after rescued animals.”

3. Interflooftional organization dedicated to protecting, rescuing and saving animals, and improving their condition.

In use: “Stories told around kibble bowls claim that Floofguard was founded by a cat, dog, goldfish, and rabbit in the early 1970s, but few animals are positive that the organization is real.”

Amazonitis

A brief bout of Amazonitis hit our house this week. Don’t know if you’ve ever been afflicted. Essentially, it’s a common medical condition brought on by something that Amazon or its affiliates do. First, someone’s mood grows foul. The person is then often afflicted with spurts of anger and short temper, accompanied by swearing at the computer. Side-effects include swearing at other people, the news, and animals.

My wife was afflicted first. Her book club is meeting on Wednesday next week. The book chosen for 2021 is Girl, Woman, Other. As soon as the announcement was made in early December, I went online to the library, checked for copies, and put it on hold. I was number two billion on five copies. (Yes, that’s an exaggeration for effect; actual number was seventeen on six copies.) (My wife’s library card doesn’t permit her to put books on hold online. Her card is part of an older system. The system was revamped five years ago. One needed to go in and get a new card. She never did that, so my card is used for her requests along with my requests. I don’t mind; I need to keep the karma points.) (Okay, I mind a little.)

I tracked progress of the book on hold. I’d reach number nine by the last week of December. Okay, the library book wasn’t going to be received in time. In lockdown, finding it locally was something she shied away from doing. The book was ordered online from Amazon.

Amazonian wheels began turning. The order was processed. Shipment took place. Estimated delivery was by 8 PM on January 8th. Candles were lit. The vigil began. Shipment notifications claimed it was out for delivery. The front lights were turned on to help the deliverer find their way.

Eight PM passed without a delivery. “It’s not here,” my wife growled, the first stage of Amazonitis. “Let me see what the tracking notification says.” She opened her computer. “What the actual fuck! They say it’s in Hillsborough, Oregon.”

Hillsborough is a suburb of Portland, about two hundred ninety miles away.

My wife turned to me. “It’s not going to be here until between the twelfth and fourteenth now. Book club is on the thirteenth. I won’t have time to read the book. Where can I get it?”

I did online searches of local bookstores to see what could be done. Wasn’t in.

“Can you order on Kindle?” my wife asked. “Do you have an app? Can I read it on the iPad?” Lots of questions, for which I thought, sure. That’s when my Amazonitis struck.

I went to Amazon, found the book, and ordered a digital copy. Amazon said, “Download our free app and read it now!” I downloaded the app. “Your devices don’t support the app,” Amazon answered. “Want to buy a new device that does?”

WTAF? You’re telling me that I can’t read it with your app on my ‘puter? WTAF?

I didn’t realize it then, but I’d already caught the Amazonitis.

The bug was spreading fast through me. Two of our floofs, Tucker and Boo, started a hissing and growling contest under my desk. “If you two don’t stop now, I’ll give you two something to hiss and growl about!” I yelled.

My wife laughed. “That’s something that I bet your Dad never said to you.”

The Amazonitis had attacked my sense of humor. I wasn’t in the mood. I’d followed a link to another app they recommended, downloaded and installed it. Then I clicked to read the book.

Unfortunately, the book was completely blank. Hundreds of blank pages. In fact, there were no pages with any words, letters, or numbers.

The Amazonitis crept deeper into my muscles. “What the actual fuck?” I snapped. On the Kinder app, my newly purchased book didn’t even show up. As Amazonitis wrapped its tentacles around me and my anger surged, I went back to my orders. Under the book on my order page was a little ‘Read Now’ button. I clicked it to see what would happen.

The book opened.

That was it? Why, oh ‘great Amazon’, I snarled in my angriest internal voice, did you have me go through all that shit about downloading apps and chasing links if I could just order it and click and read it right there on the page? Huh? Why? Why, why, why?

The crises had been averted, more or less. My wife couldn’t read the book on the iPad but she could read it on her Mac. (None of the apps had been downloaded and installed on her Mac, BTW. It was all done on the iPad or my Dell. So, she could read it on her Mac without any app.) No, she couldn’t take it to read in the bath, but, oh, well. The Amazonitis began to creep out of our systems.

Today, she checked on the tracking notification for the other book. You know, the hard copy that was supposed to be delivered by 8 PM on the 7th. The one which had suddenly been changed to a delivery date of between Jan 12 and 14.

“They say it’s been delivered,” she said.

“Where?” I asked. It was about two PM. I went to the front porch.

There it was, sitting on the mat.

I felt a new bout of Amazonitis coming on.

Floofnanimous

Floofnanimous (floofinition) – Having the consent and agreement of all involved animals.

In use: “The pets argued about lap space and napping spots, but they were floofnanimous about food issues, like their people were expected to share, and whenever one pet asked for food, they all expected to be fed.”

Friday’s Theme Music

A classic song by The Beatles, “Revolution” (1968), crashed my mental stream this morning with the intensity of an asteroid hitting Earth.

You say you want a revolution
Well, you know
We all want to change the world
You tell me that it’s evolution
Well, you know
We all want to change the world

But when you talk about destruction
Don’t you know that you can count me out

Don’t you know it’s gonna be alright
Alright, alright

You say you got a real solution
Well, you know
We’d all love to see the plan
You ask me for a contribution
Well, you know
We’re all doing what we can

But if you want money for people with minds that hate
All I can tell you is brother you have to wait

h/t to AZLyrics.com

Yes, I’m not happy with D.C. status quo. Its BAU approach doesn’t address needs quickly enough. I want change but I don’t want destruction.

Meanwhile, reading of the assault on the capitol the other day and the aftermath, it’s Kabuki theater. While photos of identified Trump supporters spill over the news and social media, and they crow about what they’ve done, some who’ve identified and called out claim their innocence despite the overwhelming evidence that says other. They left behind a swath of evidence. Despite this, right-wing media and supporters have also attempted to blame antifa. The disconnects with reality would be hilarious except for the seriousness behind their willingness to casually trample democracy and abuse freedom. Going back to the song — and Trump — there are always claims, but where are the plans? Where is the thinking? And that extends to his base. There’s nothing concrete there, just vague notions of what they will ‘do’.

Stay positive. Test negative. Wear a mask. Enjoy life as you can. Cheers

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: