AWOL

Zac is an indoor kitty. He has been for almost all of his life; definitely for as long as we've owned him (more than 10 years). His is a good life. We treat him well, love him, keep him from harm and play with him almost as much as he wants us to. He doesn't know that we made this decision because indoor kitties live much longer and much healthier than outdoor kitties but he generally doesn't seem to mind being an indoor kitty (I know my garden's birds live longer with him inside). Zac sneaks outside now and then, but usually we notice immediately and find him no farther than a few feet out the door where he has plopped down, waiting for us to scoop him up, wearing a look that says, "Ha, I did it! I knew I could."

But last night, he pulled a quick getaway - how and when baffles us - and it was at least 2 hours before we noticed he was missing. That was 9pm. Hubby and I looked for him for over an hour inside and out, reviewing clues to see if we could figure out whether he had really gotten outside and, if so, how long ago. I kept hoping that Zac had found a really good hiding spot in the house - one that we had yet to discover - but I realized I was reaching for straws when I caught myself looking in
the most unlikely places for him - like the veggie bin in the refrigerator. (He would have been one cool cat if he'd been there!)

I continued to check for him inside and out until I went to bed about midnight. I said silent prayers that the coyotes wouldn't get him and that he'd come home safe. When I awoke at 4am, I checked for him again. When he didn't come up to me on his soft kitty feet, begging for an early breakfast, as I walked around the house, I knew he was outside for sure. I peered into the darkness, hoping against hope to see his eyes glowing back at me.

Hubby said Zac came to the back door looking all forlorn this morning. "Why didn't you come find me?" as if we'd been playing a game of hide and seek and we'd given up long before he was done playing. I was so relieved he'd come home safe and sound (thank God!) that I hugged him instead of reprimanding him. I've had enough sad events in my life this past year; I don't think I could have handled losing my kitty, too. He's provided much needed pet therapy on many bad days.

All he's doing today is sleeping. Now ain't that just like a 'kid'! Carouse all night, worry the mum and sleep all day.

The little turd butt.

I think I need to go give him another hug. I wonder if he'll notice if my grip is a little fierce...

Pun-ny stuff

Our family loves word play. You have to watch what you say because we'll make a groaner of a pun or turn your words into literal humor. Think Groucho Marx's type of humor, "I'm going to take the stairs." "Won't your mother make you bring them back?" Bada bum. Yep, corny it is but we love it.

Our eldest son has inherited our humor gene (to which my hubby would say, "But I'm not wearing any jeans," or something equally inane). He's provided us with laughter many times. I still remember when he christened our pepper 'sneezinings'.

So it didn't surprise me when he came up with another giggler at dinner the other night. Hubby was trying to convince eldest to try hot sauce on his enchilada. He said, "It will put hair on your chest!"

To which, eldest replied, "Why would I want hair on my chest? Wouldn't I have to shave it?"

"No, no, no, you don't have to shave chest hair."

"Unless you are a swimmer," I added.

Hubby (oh, he thinks he's so smart) told us that they've done studies and found that swimmers don't need to shave after all, that there is some physics property (with a fancy name that I don't recall) in effect and hair actually makes swimmers more aerodynamic.

"Don't you mean hair-odynamic?" said eldest with a wicked grin.

He's got a point, you know.

Unbridled lust

I'll bet that title got your attention.

Now get your mind out of the gutter. I'm talking about the green-eyed lust that gardeners suffer from, particularly in spring, particularly at plant sales.

I saw it in everyone's eyes this past weekend at the HPSO plant sale. Had I held a mirror up to my face, I would have seen the same chlorophytic affliction echoed in my eyes. Like a bloodhound sniffing out the trail, we zero in on the "it" plant in a frantic attempt to get one before all of them are gone. With smug glee, we hoist our plants into our arms. Aaaahhh, mission accomplished. But our appetite is only temporarily assuaged, if at all. The desire we see in fellow gardeners' eyes stokes our fires and we're off on the hunt again.

Visits with friends are pleasant but temporary interruptions. We hope they don't notice that we are only giving them part of our attention. We can not help ourselves; our eyes dart about, scanning others' flats of plants and vendors' booths, mentally adding to our list and eager to start the pursuit again. Of course, our friends don't notice. Their eyes are also flitting around the room. Our glances behave like partners in a dance, slipping from resting upon each other simultaneously to careening away again. The botanic pull gains strength and ends conversations abruptly as we scatter to follow our hearts' desire of the moment. No one feels pangs of guilt; we barely notice.

Finally, our pace slows. We have accumulated more plants than we can carry and we've maxed our budget. We reach satiation. Our faces relax and lose the madmen demeanor. We know it will return with the next sale. There is no cure, only treatment, willingly accepted, for this condition. See you at the next plant sale. I'll be the one with the glassy, green glare.