|Mr. Cameron's Larry|
Anyway, Larry the cat finally came up with a mouse after six months on duty. I guess if you absolutely must put your cat outdoors, and I hope none of you do, it's just as well he's a crappy hunter. I could have predicted he wouldn't have been an all-star. It's the name. My first cat's name was also Larry. And Larry was no mouser. She was a pretty good mother, though. No, she didn't have kittens, but she could take down moths like nobody's business, as long as they kept beaning themselves on the light bulb and she had all night to do it. And like any good Mother, she'd eat the moths, which must have been like snacking on a tiny dryer sheet.
What she would do was lock her nose onto the last place she saw a mouse, say, behind the refrigerator, and then there was no unlocking her. Mice could roar by her butt like they were on the way to the Sturgis Rally and she would not remove her nose from the refrigerator. Pull her away and try to fling her in the direction of an actual mobile mouse and she'd hit the floor and snap back to her previous position like she was spring-loaded. People aren't any different. Tell a bunch of people that some immigrant or a union guy is making off with all the money they deserved to have themselves, and they'll snap their noses right behind that refrigerator looking for the straw man for years on end, all the while the fat cats are siphoning off their jobs and their pensions and their benefits right behind their backs.
|My Larry had patio privileges as an old lady.|
I guess what happens in other places that are not America is you have a parliamentary system, and you get to vote for an entire gang, and then the gang gets in office and its leader gets to be Prime Minister. That's also the system we have in our house. Dave and I can vote as hard as we want, but we're outnumbered by the mice. The mice always win. Their prime minister can do a pirouette for a half hour on the flatware rack, but his term is safe.