Yes, yes, I know, yet another post by me. But matters are pressing. Urgent is not the word.
Urgent does not cover my degree of anxiety.
A guy told me that happy humans make for happy cats. Not that I am not a happy cat.
What is happiness? Happiness to me is a juicy field mouse, or even better a fat mole, and a bowl full of crunchies whenever I want one, and a nice warm lap when the urge strikes.
But right now I am concerned about my woman's happiness. Not only is she reading Paulo Coelho's 'Adultery' (when she's the most monogamous wife imaginable - I mean, honestly, she's quite boring in that department - not an adulterous bone in her body) but she's got a bass pedal to go with that red bass and she's researching Muse. (No, not mouse, that would be acceptable - no, Muse).
I tried to reason with her. There I was, in one of my favorite spots near the pond.
Yes, that's the one. And she passes me, and what does she say?
"Hey Viggo, want to come and watch me jam?"
JAM? What jam? Blackberry jam, strawberry jam, marmelade...I hate the stuff!
But it turns out that's not what she means at all.
She wanted me to watch her play that ....thing.
Look at my face. Does this face say: "Hell, yes, let's JAM?"
Quite!
This is my face saying: no thank you.
To make matters worse, she's pressed a poem on me. That's another of her strange pastimes: micropoetry. I pretend to listen and appreciate, but all the while my thoughts drift off to other things.
I wonder if that dragonfly will come and visit the pond this afternoon?
Cupped in my hand
I hold the heartache
That's knocking on the door
But so far is refused entry
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