Periflooftetic(floofinition) – An animal with a wandering or restless nature. Origins: Flooce, Middle Floof, and Flooftin, 15th century.
In Use: “Quinn was a long-haired and handsome periflooftetic, resting in a window seat one minute, asleep on a chair in the next, and outdoors in the back yard at the next glance.”
In Use: “Sleeping through the day, Braveheart the bulldog was a nocturnal periflooftetic, thumping up and down the stairs, padding along the halls, investigating every sound with a gruff grunt.”
I’m sneezing this morning. Blowing my nose. Allergies, I think. Don’t try to tell me otherwise. Not yet. I’m awaiting other symptoms.
Our stretch of early spring sunshine is petering away. Clouds have already gathered to enjoy it, blocking blue sky views. Having eaten last night, my wife is up early, interrupting my ebb and flow. She’s watching video after video. Most are humorous. I treat it like I’m in the coffee shop and some idiot is watching their phone or playing a game or talking VERY LOUDLY ON THE TELEPHONE. I’m thinking about how to give the cat his blood pressure meds. He’s onto hiding it in a tube of Churri. I’ve had to double the Churri to get him to eat it. My wife mistakenly calls Churri chumley, so chumley is now its official household name.
This is Wenzda, March 26, 2025. It’s already 59 F and will reach 73 F. But winds are due starting at 11 AM. Some kind of storm is coming. Lightning, winds, rain, but most of that is further up north. We’re expecting some stuff, mostly wind and lower temperatures.
The Trusk Regime and GOTP inspired The Neurons’ song choice today. Donald Trump is doing a new dance called the Tariff Shuffle. ‘We’re gonna tariff the shit out of everybody. Starting today! No, tomorrow! Next week! No, today!’ I think he’s addicted to getting attention out of being like a guy on the corner shouting about the end of the world and his lost shoe.
Besides the Tariff Shuffle, we have a security leak and a bunch of disclaiming and denying that anything went wrong, along with classic blamethemessengeritis. That tactic was a major beltway flop.
Next up, we have judges and courts ruling against the Trusk Regime. They wail like a teething infant dropping its pacifier. The ol’ self-delared “Law & Order” party as personified by ‘good guy’ Mike Johnson thinks they should do away with judges and courts who rule against them. You know, as it’s put forth in the U.S. Constitution. As I understand it, the judicial branch was set up specifically as a check on the other two branches. So Johnson is proposing to undermine the Constitution by eliminating a check.
With that host of ideas bubbling in my grey matter, The Neurons brought out a song titled “Unbelieveable”. EMF wrote and performed the song, releasing it for public consumption in 1990. The main thing about it is the repeating refrain (yeah, I’m being redundant there, blame it on a lack of coffee), “The things you say. You’re unbelievable.” Which is how I often react to Trusk Regime news. As in, Trump executive order targets Chicago-based law firm Jenner & Block. Unbelievable.
Papi has been given his meds. I managed to use just one chumley, mixing it well and adding warm water. He lapped it up. I won today. On to coffee. It’s my reward.
Obfloofrate(floofinition) – An animal who obstinately refuses to stop doing ‘wrong doing’. Origins: 15th century Middle Floofish.
In Use: “People who live with cats often find the little felines to be obfloofrate about where they will sit, even if people tell them that the kitchen counter is not place for a cat.”
In Use: “Loveable and goofy, the black Lab was also an obfloofrate squirrel chaser.”
In Use: “Almost perversely obfloofrate, Jade seemed to delight in knocking things off the dresser at around three AM.”
The cat wanted out. 3:20 AM, according to my sleep-blurred vision. Following his victory prance to the door, I gave him the usual admonitions about being safe, smart, staying close, and not letting anything get him. He meowed back with a little defiance, as if to say, “Gosh, I know! You tell me this a million times a day.”
A while later, sun was breaking in through the window. I cowered from it like a vampire. But it wasn’t the sun calling me: the cat wanted back in. 6:32. He came in, rushing to his kibble bowl like a starving maniac. I stumble-walk back to bed.
“Meow,” he said shortly, batting blinds. I want out.
“No,” I answered. “Not gonna happen.”
Of course it happened.
This is Twosda, March 25, 2025. The sun is glowing hard, heating an endless blue sky. Sensing a change in the air, the cat is eager to take advantage of it. “Sure,” I sleep-spoke to him. “You slept all day yesterday. I saw you, curled up in the malabar chair.”
“Meow,” the cat answered. “Out.”
It’s already 54 F. I don’t know what it feels like. I feel like I’d like more sleep. Supposed to get to 78 F today. Huzzah. Yawn. Seriously, I mean, huzzah, but I gotta get some coffee in me before I can give it the enthusiasm it deserves.
I’m suspicious of the weather. This is Oregon. Snow still covers some mountain tops, eyeing us in the valley. I suspect winter is gonna try to slip another storm over us. It’s just like weather to lure us with warm temperatures and friendly skins and then spring out at us like a demented drunk uncle and shout, “Got you.” And then laugh like they’re crazy.
Today’s morning mental music stream Neurons are offering The Friends of Distinction with “Going In Circles”. The gentle soulful 1969 song is in there because The Neurons think it’s funny about how the cat has me getting up to let him in and out over and over again. When it’s warmer, the pet door will be put back into place so he can leave and enter as he wants. But that temperature threshold hasn’t been achieved yet.
In recent news items, Donald Trump was caught lying. Trump said he didn’t sign controversial proclamation. The Federal Register shows one with his signature. Isn’t this rich from the administration which tried to say that President Biden’s pardons weren’t real because, signature. Autosigning thingy. “Did he know what he was signing?” they asked. Think they confused which person doesn’t know what they’re saying. Really, we know that Trump knew what he was signing; he just lied about it because it was giving him negative heat. Trump melts and lies under that kind of heat, sure as the sun’s motion.
Also, measles outbreaks are spreading. It’s mostly among the unvaccinated. You know, intelligent people, learning from what’s happening, would develop and administer vaccines to stop that. But we’re dealing with a new level of denial and irrational thinking with the Trusk Regime and the MAGAts who installed them.
A silky blue sky weaves hope and optimism in Ashlandia. A gorgeous spring day is being promised. 63 F now, ‘they’ tell us it feels like 71 F. I agree with them. Plentiful sunshine, as ‘they’ say. 73 F is the predicted high.
This is Munda, March 24, 2025. I dig this kind of sunshine. Especially after months of rain and clouds and the kind of chilly weather that makes me feel older than I am.
The cat is also quite pleased, I think. He zooms around furniture and through rooms. “Sun recharge your batteries?” I ask. He stops, sits, stares. Classic 3s floofhavior. After three seconds of this, he sticks a rear leg out and washes its underside. I begin for the kitchen. He pauses the washing to gift me with a scrutinizing stare. “You’ll get yours,” I say, because I know that whereismyfood look.
In the kitchen, I’m doing my morning things. Gotta move faster today. Leaving to do Food & Friends deliveries at 10 AM. Everything must be slightly accelerated. Nanoseconds must be shaved away from routines. I don’t feel like shaving time off today. I’m not a Formula 1 driver doing qualifying laps.
I give Papi his first feeding. That’s misleading. He’s already eaten from kibble bowls several times. This is a wet food offering. Eyes bright, he chirps at me as I lower the food bowl toward him. “Yes, you love me now,” I say. His purr vibrates the floor.
Time is flying. I eat. Make coffee. Drink same. Clean and dress. Examine my lower limbs for swelling and find none, knock on wood. My compression socks are easily drawn over my feet and up my legs. I’m becoming very proficient getting them on. It’s the other end, taking them off, that’s the challenge. I might have made a mistake by turning down the doffing stick. I reassure myself that not using the doffing stick gives my wrists, fingers, and hands a needed workout. My self is as suspicious about that as a cat might be.
We hit the Senior Center for the food pickup and schedule. Cars surround the center. Parking is limited. “That’s a bad sign,” my wife declares. “The food must not be ready.”
I’m resigned to wait. “Go check.”
She returns with the first load of food within a minute, surprising us. We’re off and running with a minimum wait.
“Only ten stops today,” she says.
“Ten stops. I remember when we had twice that.” Yes, people have disappeared from the list. We usually don’t know what happens to them. They’re Schrödinger’s elderly people. That’s a miserably depressing thought for such a sunny, bright day.
Today’s morning mental music stream inhabitant is the Pat Benatar offering, “Invincible”. Released in 1985, it was quite a hit at that time and stays on classic rock stations as an offering for the elderly still feasting on the past. The Neurons called it up today to support the April 5 Hands Off actions rising. Annie commented on a post, “I just read that the April 5 coalition includes at least 83 organizations, among them the Communications Workers of America and the Service Employees International Union. It’s gonna be big!!”
We need big energy to combat the Trusk Regime and GOTP. We need the energy of “Invincible”. Written by Simon Climie and Holly Knight, the song was made for the movie The Legend of Billie Jean.
[Chorus] We can’t afford to be innocent Stand up and face the enemy It’s a do-or-die situation We will be invincible
[Verse 2] This shattered dream you cannot justify We’re gonna scream until we’re satisfied
[Pre-Chorus] What are we running for? We’ve got the right to be angry What are we running for? When there’s nowhere we can run to anymore
It could be that I’m overwrought by the Trusk situation in the United States.
Hope your day satisfies you in some meaningful ways. I’m writing and then planning long-delayed chores. I’ve always blamed the weather. Now that the weather has improved, my excuses are gone.
Floofnacious(floofinition) – An animal’s strong trait or ability to hold on, persist, or cling to things. Origins: Floofin, 400 BCE.
In Use: “Papi demonstrated an unexpected floofnacious knack for evading Michael when the latter tried to administer the cat’s morning medicines.”
In Use: “Rocky never said a word, but his floofnacious staring at Brenda always won him treats to make him go away.”
In Use: “The cat’s original name was Corey but after the little mogie grabbed a piece of pizza and refused to release it, he was renamed Floofnacious C, after the rock duo, Tenacious D, but also out of respect for his holdontoitiness.”
It’s a bleak and featureless Sunda morning. Like winter and spring both decided not to show up. The sun complained, “If you guys aren’t in, I’m not either.”
The gray feels like a weight pressing down. I wonder what the weather was like when Robbie Robertson wrote “The Weight” for The Band.
It’s three quarters through March, 22 of 2025. 46 F now, the weather ‘they’ are trying to sell me on mostly sunny skies and a high of 66 F. I’ve gone past skeptical about that. Then I read that we’re hitting the seventies for Monday through Wednesday here. My heart harbors doubt. Do they mean the 1970s? With Trump still in office, there’s a reasonable question about the reference.
Papi the ginger blade is energetic today. I make a critical mistake. After feeding him breakfast, I give him his blood pressure medicine in some Churro. He loves that stuff and this is our regular process. But stupid me, I think, I’ll do two things at once. Give him his BP med in the Churro and while he’s eating that, I’ll rub his thyroid medication in his ear. That last is something that must be done twice a day.
Except my nose is a little snoggy. I hear myself breathing through it. In and out like a wheezy, broken machine. Were it a machine, I’d think, I need to replace that thing. It’s beyond fixing.
Doing Papi’s morning meds is not a favorite activity for me. Tucker was on the same regimen. He lasted a year. Papi began it the same month when Tucker passed. Lot of burdensome memories organized in this task.
I bend down to administer the thyroid med. Papi hears that breathing. Thinking a bear or something must be after him, he hits reverse like he’s a Corvette in a police chase and speeds through my legs. I bend over double, trying to grab him while saying, “No, stay there, let me do this, please, Papi. Papi..”
He darts away. I get the gooey white medicine on me. That’s toxic to humans. Cursing, I take off the used finger cap, dump it, and wash off my hand.
Papi has settled by the back door. He did not eat his Churri with his heart medicine. He’s eyeing me the way a quarterback is looking at a defensive end just before the ball is snapped. He is thinking, “Is he coming after me? How do I get away?”
I carry out the Churri bowl like a peace offering. Papi gallops up, all purrs, and bends his head to the task. I back away to give him space.
Papi takes two licks of his Churri and speeds off again. WTF? The Neurons ask. There is no answer.
Okay, I’ll go to the other med. We’re on the clock. This stuff is s’posed to be given every twelve hours. I don a new little finger cap. Put new med on it. Head for Papi.
“Mrr,” Papi says. Watching me, we begin a ballet. I move forward. He moves right. I go right. He backs up and heads left, then turns and prances around the coffee table, saying, “Mrr,” as he does. He looks yearningly at the back door. He wants out. I’ll try to trick him. Heading to the door, I unlock it. Opens it. Papi darts up and skids to a halt. “Mrr.” He knows this trick. Smarter than me, he doesn’t budge when I open the door and brightly declare, “Do you want to go out?”
Papi shies back into the room. I close the door. Verbally cajoling him has worked in the past. That’s the past. Papi’s not having it this morning. He keeps circling me, telling me, “Mrr.” I keep explaining that he knows that I need to give him this med. It’s not that bad. We do it everyday.
He finally decides, okay, here I came. Purring, he edges up to my leg. I slowly bend. Holding gently onto his back, I thank him for indulging me and gently rub the medicine into his inner ear.
Released, he bolts to the back door and releases a plaintive cry. I get what he’s saying. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Time to go out.” I open the door. He’s like a fast wind blowing out. Halfway across the patio, tail up, he turns around, sits, and stares at me. I can’t read that expression. Telling him the usual precautions whenever he’s out, I close the door. Whole thing has taken thirty minutes. I feel like it’s been ninety, ninety five minutes. Back in the office, I take a long gulp of cooling coffee.
Here’s The Weight by The Band. If you read this far, you know why it’s in my morning mental music stream.
I type up this post. Papi comes back in. I set the Churri with his meds down in a different room. He eats it up.
I come back into the office and set. Papi joins me and purrs as I scratch his head and chin.
It’s rainy spring weather and things are blooming in Ashlandia. Temperatures are below average for March 22 in 2025. Right now, we’re anchored to 45 F under a cloudy duvet. Saturda’s high is projected to be ten degrees higher. Don’t even think winter has ended. This is definitely sprinter. I can recall several years here when blooming flowers are surrounded by snow on Easter morning.
Butter Butt, aka Papi the ginger blade, the floof formerly known as Meep has had a busy several days. Getting ready for warming weather, he’s been exercising his exits and entrances, honing his skills to command us to let him in and out of the house, and testing the doors to ensure they open without any problems. He’s been very thorough and diligent. His routine begins around 4:30 AM and goes with few pauses until 10 AM. You gotta admire his tenacity.
Today’s theme music seems like it was destined. My wife and I ran errands and had breakfas out yesterday. When we returned to the car after eating, this song began playing. My wife commented, “This song was playing when we parked.” She was right.
That wasn’t enough, though. We went grocery shopping. Came out and got into the car. Turned it on. It was this song again.
We went home and put away the groceries. I drove off to write. When I got in the car to come on, the same song began playing. It’s little surprise that The Neurons sprang it on me in my morning mental music stream as I circulated through the morning routines. So here is Rosé and Bruno Mars with their 2024 hit, “Apt.”
It’s fun and silly, with multiple pop-cultures nods from famous songs and scenes embedded in it. Hope you enjoy it. As Rosé is a K-pop artist who is a member of Blackpink, her global success with this song is culturally and historically significant.
I’ve tumbled for coffee again, and things are already lookin’ up. Hope your day is lookin’ up as well. Here we go. Cheers
Bold sunshine lured my eyes open. It’s summer, this hoople head’s addled neurons suggested.
It’s not summer. This is Thirstda, March 20, 2025. We’re stepping into spring’s threshold. I went onto the back patio with Papi the ginger blade, aka Butter Butt. The Butt did a little springish frolocking. “I agree,” I said. “It feels like a cold spring morning.” Daffs have pushed their yellow heads out. It’s 37 F but feels like 51 F, and is expected to climb to 45 plus F. Clouds have already hustled in, least we get too optimistic about the blue sky and sunshine. The weather ‘they’ couch their forecast with rain warnings. Not bad for Ashlandia’s first day of spring in 2025.
The addled Neurons have snuck a 2014 John Mellencamp song into the morning mental music stream. It’s a bit cynical. “Lawless Times” rails against the lack of trust that had begun emerging twenty years ago, the latest in many cycles of distrust – the trust in banks, business, goverment, trust in ourselves and one another, were all going down in flames, and here we are. It takes a certain amount of vetting to reach a point where you trust someone. Even though, you keep an eye on them. They might Schumer you.
The song started because I was in a Walmart the day before yesterday. My wife was looking for a kitchen item. Walmart was supposed to have it. I don’t think I’ve been in a Walmart in over a year. It’s not one of my regular shopping stops. Talk about a police state. Cameras everywhere. Signs at the end of every aisle reminding you that cameras are watching. And so many items were physically locked behind glass doors or in cages. Like all camping gear. Cosmetics. Vacuum cleaners. Is this the common American experience now? And that’s when “Lawless Times” first fired up. Walmart sure as hell doesn’t trust its customers. Of course, I do not trust PINO Trusk and his regime. I don’t trust the Roberts Court. I don’t trust the GOTP. I especially don’t trust Elon Reeve Musk, Jeff Bezos, and Mark Zuckerberg. I sure as hell don’t trust JD Vance and Tommy Tuberville, MTG and Lauren Boebert.
Well, I don’t trust myself I don’t trust you Don’t get too sick It’ll be the end of you Don’t expect a helping hand If you fall down And if you want to steal this song It can be easily loaded down My, my, my These are lawless times My, my, my These are lawless times So you might ask yourself Hey, what can I do? I can’t trust the future What’s been promised to you Learn the rules hard and fast Take care of yourself And keep your eyes open On everybody else
Too much truth in that song but it has a catchy rhythm. You might end up, as I do, singing it to yourself as you go through your day.
I’ve invited coffee in again and it’s lit a small flame under The Neurons. Hope you day starts with promise and ends with satisfaction. Let’s rock it. Cheers
Celfloofbrity(floofinition) – A renown or celebrated animal. Origins: 15th century, Middle Floof, Floonch
In Use: “The lithe black and white tuxedo floof arrived at the horse farm and established his celfloofbrity by killing thirteen mice, according to legend. Naturally, with that killing skill and that tuxedo, they named him Bond; Cat Bond.”
Michael Seidel, writer 