Rained overnight, which is nice, cooled things down, just 15C at 10:30 and I’m on the front porch in my gym shorts and socks, a red t-shirt that’s fading to pink, a yeti full of hot coffee and my thoughts of covid and travel and van life and retirement and money, and women and glasses of beer…
I keep my clothing far too long.
I’m going to have to paint the whole house next winter.
The missus went to Funkytown, leaving me alone with the dog, who slept on the landing because the cat was about. The youngest, Mattie is around too, bouncing between here and the bungalow - she works and sleeps here, she watches TV and hangs around there, tooting on a spliff to smooth out the bumps, every now and again. She doesn’t drink much, but she likes the weed.
“These gummies are so good.”
The cat, of course is here too, independently underfoot or sleeping on top of me, looking out a window at the birds and making funny noises or disappeared for hours on end. When I see her sleeping, I wake her up. What goes around comes around. But at least she’s eaten all the bugs in the basement. She only attacks the dog when she’s hungry, which is late in the afternoon and at other random times because that’s what cats do. They cannot be trusted anymore than beets can. Don’t turn your back on the beet. Don’t trust the innocent-looking tabby. The beet is the murder returned to the scene of the crime. The tabby is the bi-polar bitch and off her meds, she could freak out on you without warning. Needy manipulator, cold shoulder, warm heart, cold hands, sharp claws, quick to purr, quicker to scratch.