Exflooftrate(floofinition) – 1. To remove oneself from an animal with stealth.
In use: “Many people fall asleep and awaken to find a favorite pet asleep with them, looking as sweet as fresh cinnamon rolls, forcing them to exflooftrate themselves so as not to disturb their slumbering fur friend.”
2. To covertly or surreptitiously move an animal, preferably without disturbing them.
In use: “The sick dog was asleep on the floor. She exflooftrated her canine friend to the bed, where a heating pad would help warm his tired, old body.”
Began with my wife and I establishing a home in a new location. Part of a community, seemed to be part of an apartment complex or condo. Outside, but up in the condo (that’s what I’ll go with) (and yes, it was both things – I was inside and outside at once), I set up reaffirming our place’s boundaries. This involved setting up green wooden railings on decks. Just trying to ensure that we were living up to our agreement. There were also storage units. Did we want those? someone asked my wife, who asked me. Yes, we did, I answered. She relayed that back.
Then we were inside. She was going off on some activity. I was working. A journalist. For some reason, it was important to keep my identity and work secret, along with my marriage. My wife and I were living together as husband and wife, but it was important others didn’t know that. Don’t know why. Other women approached, observing me. Wanted to know who I am. What I was doing. I kept responses to a minimum. They peeked into my home, attempting to see more. Fortunately, they didn’t see my wife’s clothing and items. She was worried about that, but we were safe. She kept coming and going.
Meanwhile, I’m writing. Outside the place, I see others reading my previous material. I’m afraid they’ll realize it’s me. Can’t have that. One person, a male, worries me most. Younger, he seems overly interested in me. I attempt to avoid him.
People are discussing my work. They don’t know it’s my work. Then they want to know what I’m doing. What am I working on? Can’t avoid them seeing that I’m writing, so I tell them that I am writing and revising. I downplay what it is. They’re insistent and prying. I finally tell them, I’m writing and revising. This is who I am.
Welcome to As The Planet Turns.Today is August 26. 2021. Thursday. Cats are fed. One sleeps. Two others wash and supervise human activities. Breakfast is et. Coffee is brewed. Sunrise was at 6:30 AM. Sunset is planned for 7:55 PM. It’s about 62 F now. We expect a high of 81 to 84 F.
Blue skies are out there! Huzzah! Smoke has finally dissipated. Happened last night. I crept out, blinking at the sun, mask in hand, sniffing for smoke. A wind blew The sun was visible! And white and hot instead of orange or red. Windows were opened. Fresh air flowed. Well, sort of fresh. Fresher than it had been in weeks.
Today, even better, at the moment. Air quality hovers in the low sixties! We can see the mountains. But, yes, smoke is starting to screen the scene. Windows are open now but we’ll remain vigilant.
Vigilant is today’s key word for COVID-19 efforts. We’re back to masking outdoors in Oregon as of tomorrow, along with indoors. Had to be done. Hospitals are full. The crises grows like a mushroom cloud over a nuke. Too many are dissing the vax. Refusing to do it because…take your raison de jour. Religion. Philosophy. Politics. Ignorance. Freedom. Whichever it is, the majority who end up sick eventually flip. They wish they had received the vax and regret past actions. They were wrong, they’ll tell you. Too late for them. They’re hoping to save other anti-vaxxers.
The numbers tell it all. 10,000 unvaccinated, 500 will die. Along the way, ICUs and hospital beds will fill. The economy takes a hit because workers and customers are sick. Healthcare workers are exhausted.
With vaccinations, the infection rate falls. So does the death rate. Try .0046%. Which means, with vaccinations, one in 434,000 dies. Much different isn’t it?
“Murder by Numbers” comes to mind today. The 1983 song by The Police has lyrics by Sting, music by Copeland.
Now you can join the ranks of the illustrious In history’s great dark hall of fame All our greatest killers were industrious At least the ones that we all know by name But you can reach the top of your profession If you become the leader of the land For murder is the sport of the elected And you don’t need To lift a finger of your hand