A Life

She’d wrestled and cried

and purred and loved,

and was loved

and bit and clawed

(mostly in play)


and then gave a sigh and closed her eyes

just for a moment

just to rest

(just for a moment)

before giving up the fight to live

started seventeen years ago.


Flooftigue (floofinition) – Extreme tiredness resulting from mental or physical exertion or illness associated with an animal.

In use: “She loved her collies and cats dearly but sometimes the flooftigue experienced from their constant demands and care (especially the young, rebellious Cortney, now nickname the S.S. Rambunctious, as in “Uh, oh, the S.S. Rambunctious is under steam again, look out,”) occasionally made her wonder life without her pets would be like. Then one of them would give her a kiss and a smile, and all would be forgiven.”

Cell Floof

Cell Floof (floofinition) – An animal who guards, likes, steals, or uses cell phones.

In use: “Seeing the unsecured cell phone on the bench in the foyer, Tucker assumed his cell floof fur and curled up on it, allowing only a little to show, so his people could appreciate what he was doing.”

Tucker returns from his outdoor napping and sentry routine, and assumes duties as a cell floof (see it by his head?).

Two More Dreams

I often dream about four things: being in the military (again), cars, houses, and animals. Two of those made it into the second dream. It was the main event. First, though, came a dream snippet.

I was working on rice flavors. I came up with a new, exciting idea: cinnamon rice. Awakening, I thought, cinnamon and rice? That’s been around for eons, as in, say, rice pudding. I was quite excited in the dream, though.

My boss entered. I made my announcement.

He loved the idea. “Cinnamon and rice. That’s our new potato chip flavor.”

Whaaat? I’d been working on potato chip flavors? I was aghast, horrified, and crestfallen. Then I said, move on.

My second dream found me in a huge house. My wife and I had been living there for years, but the place surprised me with its size. Besides several levels, the house featured several wings and a huge yard.

I’d been living on the main levels, I realized, and had forgotten about the other parts. Now, remembering them, I went on a re-discovery exploration. Everything was well lit, plush and well furnished, but some of the white marble steps were dusty. I had to clean those off, I told myself.

Back in the house, my black cat was clamoring for my attention, but I had a house guest. I took her to a breakfast nook off the second dining room (the more informal one). There was a table with three chairs. Two were standard dining room chairs, white with light blue padded seats. The third, in the same motif, was on wheels and featured a wicker headrest that could be folded up to extend the back.

I presented this to my friend. I hadn’t seen here in over a decade. She’d never been to my house. Dressed in light blue and white that weirdly matched the dining room and breakfast nook, she stood there with a laptop bag over her shoulder. “Perfect.” She set her bag down. “I will write and type here.”

Good. She wouldn’t bother us there. But I said, “You’ll be facing a wall.” That was anathema to me; I liked facing a window so I could look out.

“No, I like facing walls, so I’m not disturbed,” she replied.

Weird to me. Meanwhile, I had to pick up the dogs from the vet. I went out as the van arrived, bringing them back. (Yeah, that confused me for a second; I thought I had to go get them, but no, they’d been brought to me.)

I took the dogs inside and let them go. They rushed to one bathroom. Surprised, I followed them in. There, I found kittens: a gray, ginger, and two black and white. They were toddling around, their little tails straight up the air like pointers. The dogs avidly sniffed them.

I called to my wife, “Where did these kittens come from?”

She didn’t answer. That’s where the dream ended.

Thursday’s Theme Music

Song from 1969 is rambling through my head. (Guess it’s Throwback Thursday.) (This is Thursday, innit? Days are sort of bleeding together with a lovely melange of rain, sun, and night.)

“Good Times, Bad Times” by Led Zeppelin is cranking through the stream? Why? Because it can. But I think it sorta works for these P.D. (pandemic days, or pandays, if you must). “Good times, bad times, you know I’ve seen my share.” Plant sings it so much better than me, according to my cats. But then, they’re very critical by nature. They’re like, “Stop singing. Feed me. Stop moving. Let me sleep on your lap. What’re you doing? Where you going? Get back here. Don’t close that door. Hey, what’re you doing? What’s going on behind that door? Let me in! Let me in!”


All I Want (A Cat’s Lament)

Give me strength

to not claw you as you sit

looking at me

and telling me,

“I don’t understand what you want.”

You’re not trying.

We both know it.

We know what I want.

You’re just being dogmatic about what you’ll give me.

Pig-headed about giving in.

Mulish in your approach to our relationship.

Drawing your head into your shell.

Sticking it into the ground.

Or scurrying, mouse-like, from my demands.

Slithering away from facing up to my natural superiority.

Following the herd about what should be done.

Instead of striking out on your own,

and going in there,

and opening every food that’s available

until we find one that makes me happy.

That’s all I want.

The Surviving Dream

I was out with others. We were in endless stores but outside, in rolling, emerald green hills bathed in sunshine. I was happy but I was aware that it was a dire situation. Everyone was aware. What measures did we need to take? How could we survive?

Then, boom, all were dead.

Then I was getting back up. I was aware it was a dire situation. What measures did we need to take? Okay, I’d just died, so what we’d done didn’t work. We needed to do something else. Then, boom, something was coming, and we all died.

I was back after a second, in the same situation, trying to figure out what to do, then it all happened again.

I spoke with others. How can we stop this cycle? Others were certain that it couldn’t be stopped, they saw no way that it could. But a man in uniform stepped forward.

He was dressed like a WWII Nazi officer, grey uniform and hat, black epaulets, knee-high shiny black boots, in a movie. “Actually, it can be stopped,” he said. “You just need the right place to hide and the perfect timing.”

Before I could question him more, he said, “Ah, here it comes again.”

I saw something coming, or more correctly, looking down and across the stores on the grassy hills, I saw its effects on the people and world. I warned others that it was coming as I took cover with a cat. I died.

Born again after that, I joked with the cat, “Well, that didn’t work. Did you die, too?” The cat didn’t answer. Then, knowing the cycle was short, I began hunting for the next place to hide. This time, I seemed more aware of the threat coming toward me. It rippled through the people and fields like a light breeze blowing through a rows of wheat. Watching it come up, I timed my move and stepped aside.

I’m not certain if I died or not. There wasn’t a moment of awareness of dying, but I was again considering the situation, the German officer beside me. “No, it’s not that easy,” he said in a jocular voice.

I was dubious of him. “I think you’re trying to distract me. Who are you? Why are you even here?” I had the sense that he was there for misdirection. He was there to stop me from seeing and thinking.

An event was coming again. Picking up my cat, I turned my back and hunkered down under a table.

The dream ended.

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