10.1.2k2

Thursday, 3 October 2002

I was reading in bed the other night. Finishing up a nice story by one of my fav. writers: A one Neal Barrett, Jr. I had my feet stuffed into the flap of the turned-down covers. After a bit, the totsys started to get hotsy. I pulled a foot out and I noticed I still had my lucky TV-static-colored sox on. These are good sox, even though their elastic done run off some time ago. A time like this, however, that’s a bonus. They easy to kick off.

In a jif, the sox were off. A mere heel to toe with pull and a repeat of said heel to toe with pull and that’s all she wrote. Two sox off and ready for ejectio! As the left side of my bed is against the wall, the only place to kick the sox was to my right, so I raised up my left leg, so as to allow a right-foot scoop-and-kick, and let them lucky sox go. Seems my cat was sitting just down range, most likely admiring the white noise machine (read: Fan). If an Army colonel could have seen Fatty’s reaction under bombardment he would have conscripted the little shit in a minute and sent him to the front. As an artillery “spotter,” as they were formerly known, or as an “F.O.” as they’re known these days. “Forward Observer.” Times I got a different meaning for F.O. for this cat.

Fats didn’t bat an eye. I think the left sock actually grazed him and he could not have cared less. This from a cat that jumps two feet in the air when a bee farts in Florida. I saw his bravery while under the onslaught of flying sox and pictured him calling in Snake and Nape on his own position in some faraway mudhole in an act of supreme selflessness. It’s a Grand Old Flag, Fats. Fats?

Seems Fats had deserted his post during my fantasy-time.

Oh, but here he was up on the bed with me after all. “Hi Old Man,” I said. He looked at me sideways. “Hey,” I said, “you think you can NOT pull that early-AM squawking tomorrow morning like you pulled THIS morning?” “Tell you what,” Fats said, “you don’t pull a ‘forgot to feed and water the cats’ tonight and I’ll see what I can do about the squawking. Deal?” Seemed reasonable. “Arrrrright,” I said.

Doc’s Clock.

See you there. bye-ee!