Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Feral Creature
Today is December 12th. If you visit Google today you'll see that Google has put Edvard Munch's THE SCREAM into their logo. So, if you're reading this after December 12th, 2006, and you click on http://www.google.com/, you probably won't see THE SCREAM woven into the Google tapestry. It's great, though, and I recommend looking at it if it's still the 12th.
Well, there were no rats in my room last night. The one I trapped the night before seems to have been the only one.
Lately I've had several customers asking for books about feral cats. Without reading the books they want, I can tell you to stay away from them. (The cats, not the customers, although you might do well to steer clear of feral cat fans.) I think my favorite magazine title is CAT FANCIER. I wonder if there's going to be CAT FANCIER, FERAL EDITION.
The lady who asked for a book on feral cats yesterday had darting eyes and kept rubbing her nose. I think she had a real temptation to lick the palms of her hands, but she's still at the point of knowing this would be weird. I give her till after Christmas before she starts jumping in kitty litter. She whispered, "Do you have anything...?"
"What?" I said.
She looked as if she wanted to scratch her ribcage. "Anything on...on...feral."
"Feral?"
"Feral cats. Do you guys...Do you guys have a book on feral cats. Does anybody ask for those?" She looked behind her twice, but obviously couldn't find a tail to bite. She looked at me with big eyes welling with tears.
"I'll look one up," I said.
I found one on the computer and showed her the shelf. She grabbed the book hungrily. I'm sure she's sitting in the woods now, pawing through it.
Of course, I get a hungry look when I shell out sixteen-ninety-five for a CD featuring a Paul McCartney vocal (the new one by Al Jareau and George Benson has Paul at the end) so I'm sort of a feral Beatlemaniac.
I have a friend who had a virtually feral cat. The cat had escaped its owners and had become a survivalist. My friend took it in. In order to play with it he'd put on a thick, industrial glove which went up to his elbow and wave his arm in front of the cat. The cat would sink its claws in the glove and my friend would swing the cat around.
"Ro-o-o-ow," the cat would say.
"Yes, my pet," my friend would say, and you'd hear nothing but "Ro-o-o-ow" and "Yes, my pet," for twenty minutes until one of them got dizzy.
Well, there were no rats in my room last night. The one I trapped the night before seems to have been the only one.
Lately I've had several customers asking for books about feral cats. Without reading the books they want, I can tell you to stay away from them. (The cats, not the customers, although you might do well to steer clear of feral cat fans.) I think my favorite magazine title is CAT FANCIER. I wonder if there's going to be CAT FANCIER, FERAL EDITION.
The lady who asked for a book on feral cats yesterday had darting eyes and kept rubbing her nose. I think she had a real temptation to lick the palms of her hands, but she's still at the point of knowing this would be weird. I give her till after Christmas before she starts jumping in kitty litter. She whispered, "Do you have anything...?"
"What?" I said.
She looked as if she wanted to scratch her ribcage. "Anything on...on...feral."
"Feral?"
"Feral cats. Do you guys...Do you guys have a book on feral cats. Does anybody ask for those?" She looked behind her twice, but obviously couldn't find a tail to bite. She looked at me with big eyes welling with tears.
"I'll look one up," I said.
I found one on the computer and showed her the shelf. She grabbed the book hungrily. I'm sure she's sitting in the woods now, pawing through it.
Of course, I get a hungry look when I shell out sixteen-ninety-five for a CD featuring a Paul McCartney vocal (the new one by Al Jareau and George Benson has Paul at the end) so I'm sort of a feral Beatlemaniac.
I have a friend who had a virtually feral cat. The cat had escaped its owners and had become a survivalist. My friend took it in. In order to play with it he'd put on a thick, industrial glove which went up to his elbow and wave his arm in front of the cat. The cat would sink its claws in the glove and my friend would swing the cat around.
"Ro-o-o-ow," the cat would say.
"Yes, my pet," my friend would say, and you'd hear nothing but "Ro-o-o-ow" and "Yes, my pet," for twenty minutes until one of them got dizzy.
# posted by Fredwemyss @ 12:08 PM 
